


Enharmonic Interval

by LockedOwle



Series: Team Dynamics [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Ministry of Magic, Assassin Harry Potter, Crossover, Everyone Lies Until The End, Gen, Light Angst, Natasha is a troll Harry is a brat and Clint deals with them like a pro, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Plotty, SHIELD Agent Harry Potter, Sneaky Characters, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 54,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LockedOwle/pseuds/LockedOwle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At eighteen Harry figures that he's done all the good that he'd ever going to do. SHIELD thinks otherwise. First in the Team Dynamics Series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Extended Summary: Enharmonic Interval is the first story in a series. The series will also crossover with the Batman Nolan verse in a major way. This story is set several years before the Avengers movie. Potterverse goes very AU after book 4, which means keep an open mind. If you're not a fan of backstory and explanations being revealed over time this story might frustrate you. Likewise for people who dislike unreliable narration, or characters who outright lie to other characters without any indication at the time that they might be lying.
> 
> That said, thank you for reading my story! I hope that you enjoy the ride; it's a crazy one.
> 
> PS: I own nothing anyone would recognize, and everything that no one would.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry meet SHIELD. SHIELD, Harry.

Harry was eleven years old when he began to figure it out. The thought had existed for a long time, but in a new and strange place it still prevailed. In the end, the lesson didn’t stick. 

He was young, and he was foolish.

He was twelve and the opportunity recurred. He was older, smarter, but not smart enough. Again the chance slipped away and Harry reverted.

He was thirteen and he had hope, however brief. He learned another lesson then. You can’t lose something until you have something to lose.

He was fourteen. He’d seen the beginning of the end. And he finally, finally understood.  

He’d been stubborn, and it had taken years but now he knew. And he wouldn’t forget.

“I want to be ready,” he said calmly.

Sirius sucked in a furious breath, but a single glance made him deflate. He stared at Harry with a furious worried desperation. But he had no answers. So Harry turned to the Headmaster, whom he knew held the majority of the cards here.

“I want to be ready,” he repeated. “He’s going to come for me and he will kill me if I’m not prepared. So tell me. Tell me everything.” 

Dumbledore remained gravely silent for a moment, staring deeply into Harry’s eyes. He seemed to come to a decision then. He straightened in his chair, his presence swelling until it touched every corner of his office.

“Very well.”

Because Harry understood now. In the end, no one would be able to save him. If he wanted to live, he would have to save himself. No matter what it took.

He was fourteen, and he was done being helpless. 

 

***

He was seventeen and victorious. Seventeen and different. Seventeen and broken.

And the world, the world was wrong. His people were weak and fearful.

It didn’t end with Voldemort. There would always be evil. Humanity would continue to create evil. So now he would be there to stop it in all the forms it existed. He relished the burn, reveled in the collective majesty of the all those around him. His knees buckled, and he would have fallen if his brothers had not been there to gasp his elbows. Bolstered. Surrounded. Buffered. Safe.

And the Master, the Master was smiling. “Welcome Brother, to the League of Shadows.”

 

***

He was eighteen, and he was probably going to die.

The arrow pierced him high, entering the back of his shoulder, sinking all the way through and exiting in the front. Then the head blossomed into a claw and dug into the skin and muscle around the wound. Harry had a moment to think _oh shit_ before he was jerked off his feet.

He managed to twist as he fell to keep his weight off the wound, but couldn’t protect himself beyond that.

 _Oh shit_ , he thought again. And then, _who the fuck just shot me with an arrow?_

There was the crunch of someone approaching over the roof tiles, and he quickly began groping at the arrowhead. He managed to detach the gripping arms just as the footsteps drew near. He rolled to his feet and ripped the arrow free in one motion. He stabbed out with it, hoping to catch his attacker off guard. The woman sidestepped out of the way, wielding a long wicked looking knife. Harry fell back, eyes cutting side to side as he searched for an escape.

The woman hadn’t fired the arrow. There was no sign of a bow anywhere nearby. That meant backup. It meant that his chances of surviving this took a nosedive. Harry tossed the arrow shaft away, and reached for the knife strapped to his thigh.

“I wouldn’t,” the woman said coolly.

Her body suit was free of distinguishing markings. Her hair was a bright vibrant red, pulled back into a low messy tail that reached mid back. Her face was intent, with just a hint of an amused smile curling up her lips at the corners. Her sniper could have taken him out; Harry was fairly sure of that. For some reason they didn’t want him dead.

Harry hesitated and then dropped his hand.

“What do you want?”

There was another crunch behind him, but Harry was already turning, hand falling back to his hip.

“Ah! Hold it.” The man who had appeared behind him motioned with his loaded compound bow, indicating that he wanted Harry to take a step back from the roof’s edge.

Harry grit his teeth, but took a shuffling step farther onto the roof.

“Nice to meet you in person, Nightshade,” the woman said.

“Likewise,” Harry said flatly. “Who the hell are you?”

“Black Widow.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah,” the man said. “And I’m Hawkeye.”

Harry stared at him for a long moment. “Who?”

The man’s lips parted, his eyes widening in surprised outrage. “What do you mean who?”

“I mean, ‘I have no fucking idea who you are.'”

Hawkeye pressed his lips together, and he shook his head in disbelief. Widow’s eyebrows were raised, and she was smiling slightly.

“Shut up,” Hawkeye said to her without lifting his gaze from Harry.

“What do you want?” Harry asked. 

Black Widow and Hawkeye shared a look over Harry’s head.

“How old are you, kid?” Hawkeye asked, his voice grave. 

Harry sighed, resisting the urge to rub at his face because it was _always_ this. The Master hadn’t cared how young he’d been. His people, (the people Before – before he’d won/loss – when he’d been whole) they hadn’t cared. It was only now that people questioned. The questions usually stopped after he completed his first assignment, but it grew so tiresome at times. So he sighed, let his face go carefully blank, and didn’t answer.

“Okay, kid,” Hawkeye said and he sounded resigned.

Black Widow moved, and Harry’s head snapped in her direction, wary of the knife she held.

There was a drawback to bows, which was why it was so unusual that Agent Hawkeye used one in the field. They telegraphed far too easily, and became useless at short range. It made little sense that Hawkeye would reveal himself, especially when both Agents had to have known that Harry was alone.

So when Hawkeye drew his arm back, Harry was already moving, spinning and sprinting to the edge of the roof. He hadn’t counted on Black Widow slipping in between him and his escape, slashing out with her knife and trying to drive him back. He was wounded, he remembered grimly, and outnumbered. Not outmatched, he was pretty sure of that. Individually, Harry was confident that he could have taken them. With them together, and his range of motion arrested by his wound, the chances were slim.

Harry rolled, groping at his belt with his left hand while he finally unsheathed his knife with the right. He came to his feet, and then pushed off with his back foot. Black Widow’s eyes narrowed as she was forced to take a step back to keep Harry outside her guard, Harry seamlessly taking offensive. He feinted right, and then spun, releasing the power in his left hand and blowing. Widow brought her hands to her face instinctively, protecting her eyes and nose. Harry jumped, using her exposed thigh as a platform, and spun, slashing at the back of her exposed neck. The end of Hawkeye’s bow arrested what would have been a killing strike. Harry followed through, striking Hawkeye in the temple with the flat of his foot as he grasped the agent’s back shoulder. He re-launched himself, but somehow Black Widow was in the air too. She wrapped her thighs around Harry’s shoulders and bore him to the ground.

He landed on his wounded shoulder, but shoved the pain aside in time to block Widow’s sparking gauntlets as she attempted to bring them down on his head. He brought his right leg up between them, knocking Widow aside and flipping them. He brought his knife up to her throat, victory rising triumphantly in the back of his throat.

It descended just as quickly when he felt the sharp point of an arrow digging into the back of his neck, and the equally sharp edge of a knife pressing at the inside of his thigh.

Widow looked up at him, her expression still coolly intent, but slightly also reluctantly intrigued.

“Where’d you learn that?” she asked, only slightly out of breath. “That launch?”

Harry paused, holding himself stiffly between the sharp point of the arrow and the equally sharp edge of the knife. “The first one?” he asked.

“The second, from his shoulder.”

“It wasn’t a launch,” Harry admitted. “I was already in the air.” After a moment, Harry asked. “How did you--?” Because he was going to die, and why not learn a final lesson before he went.

“He launched me as he was going down. Thigh to shoulder.”

“Huh.” He couldn’t help himself, so he added, “If he hadn’t been here, this fight would have ended much differently.”

Hawkeye shifted, and Harry cut his eyes to him briefly in time to see the man roll his eyes. “We could have killed you 10 times over, kid. Drop the knife.”

“Why should I?”

“Because we need to bring you in, and I’d rather you walk instead of us having to carry you.”

“Bring me in?”

“Yeah,” Hawkeye said. “So drop it.”

Harry narrowed his eyes down at Widow, who raised a challenging eyebrow. They wanted to bring him in, most likely to interrogate him before they executed him. No way. Widow’s eyes narrowed and before Harry could follow through with his knife, she slashed at his thigh with hers, arching up and sliding her forearm between his wrist and her shoulder at the same time. Harry pressed down automatically, but his knife scrapped uselessly against her gauntlet. There was a hot bloom of pain in the tight muscle where his neck met his shoulder, and he was tugged back by his collar. He lay there for a moment before remembering the knife. He jerked his hand up, aiming for his own neck because dead was better than taken. A heeled boot came down on his wrist.

“Feisty,” he heard Hawkeye say, but the agent’s dry voice sounded like he was speaking underwater – blood was streaming from the cut

“Very well trained.”

“Better than you?”

“Oh he wishes.”

Things got fuzzy after that.

“…call this unharmed? Someone get pressure on that leg wound.”

“…will please the Director…”

“…a few hours out. How’s he…

“…has seen serious action. Look at all his…”

Harry lashed out when he felt the clasps on his kevlar lined vest come undone. Or, he tried to. His hands were tied down.

“Don’t touch me,” he said. “Don’t-.”

He felt a firm hand on his sternum, pressing hard in order to hold him down.

Things fell away but a little while later he was blinking his eyes open, at once jerking against the restraints around his wrists and chest.

“Welcome back,” a mild voice said. And Harry jerked again, turning to look at who’d addressed him.

He looked more like an accountant than an agent but there was a dangerous stillness that he recognized. It made him grow quiet, eyes falling half shut as he forced his body to relax. The suited man offered a sharp smile.

“Hello, Nightshade. My name is Agent Coulson,” the man said. “You are now a guest of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Harry had been a ‘guest’ often enough to know what that meant. He’d also been around enough to have heard of S.H.I.E.L.D. They were based in the U.S, more than enough reason to avoid. Their acquisition of Black Widow sent the organized criminal underworld into a tizzy for a while. Her shift in allegiance had left a sizable hole, one that many clandestine persons had sought to fill. Harry had done his best to avoid the fallout, but he’d been able to boast a spike in the amount of job offers. But now here he was, in a position he had fought so hard to avoid.

“Okay,” he said. “What do I owe S.H.I.E.L.D in exchange for its ‘hospitality?’”

Agent Coulson smiled, and Harry’s uneasiness increased.

“You’re lucky that you’re with us, and not one of our rival agencies. It’s likely that they would not have been so kind.”

Harry pressed his lips together and glowered. Agent Coulson settled back into the chair and folded his hands over his stomach. He seemed willing to wait Harry out. Well whatever, Harry was the best at waiting. Eventually he closed his eyes. Agent Coulson was a solid presence, but Harry was able to set his uneasiness aside. The pain in his shoulder and leg was barely noticeable. He let himself doze, waking once in a while to see Agent Coulson seated at his bedside, reading from a tablet computer in his hands. Whenever Harry opened his eyes, Coulson looked up, his expression mildly expectant. By the third time Harry glowered at him, turned his head, and allowed himself to truly sleep.

The room he was in was private, with large windows on three walls and a door made of wire-enforced glass. He was under surveillance, both through the windows and the through the four cameras installed in the room. Two of the cameras were visible, situated in opposite corners of the room. The other two was hidden, one in the molding above the door and the other in the drop ceiling. He might have considered it overkill, especially with the restraints holding his wrists and chest to the bed. The truth of the matter was that if it weren’t for the cameras, Harry might have felt comfortable enough to attempt to contort his way free. He would not be able to do so fast enough to avoid being caught.

So he allowed himself to be kept captive, but that was the extent of his cooperation. Twice a day his hands were freed and food was brought in, accompanied, of course, by Agent Coulson and another armed agent. For three days, Harry glowered and ignored them. He refused anything they brought him, even the water.

Agent Coulson never betrayed anything more than exasperation.

“What are you trying to achieve?” he asked as Harry’s breakfast was taken away.

Harry frowned at him and remained silent.

“Medical plans on inserting an NG tube. Do you know what that is?” Coulson didn’t wait for Harry to answer. “It’s a tube inserted through the nose, down the throat and into your stomach. I’m told it’s rather uncomfortable.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, and tried to look as mocking as possible. Coulson settled into his usual chair.

“What’s your name?”

Harry laughed at him.

Coulson smiled thinly. “I thought it was worth a try.” The smile fell and he sighed. “I’m going to be honest with you Nightshade. My superiors are becoming impatient. Right now you are only useful to us for the information that you possess. If you continue to remain silent, we will be forced to terminate you.”

Harry stared at him, thinking quickly. Dying was not something that he was prepared to accept. He had done too much to end here, in this place with these people. There were things that he knew, jobs that he’d taken – that information didn’t matter much to him beyond the desire to maintain his own standards of professional integrity. They would want to know who trained him, though, and that was not something Harry was willing to divulge.

So he remained silent.

Coulson sighed, like Harry had disappointed him.

“All right,” he said.

He did not return the next day, but Harry was the proud owner of a nasogastric tube. Coulson was right. It was more than a little uncomfortable. He slept, mostly out of boredom. He woke some time later, and a new person was sitting in Coulson’s regular chair.

“I’ve been told that you’re being stubborn,” Black Widow said.

She had changed out of the body suit, which was a bit of a shame. Her jeans and black t-shirt did little to gentle the fuck you vibes she seemed to put off without even trying. Harry stared at her, just as unwilling to speak to her as he was to Coulson.

“You don’t seem like a complete idiot. So I’m going to tell you something. Are you listening?” She waited, and Harry, reluctantly intrigued, nodded. “There is absolutely no one, and nothing, worth dying for. SHIELD will terminate you, if you don’t give them what they want.”

“That’s not true,” Harry said, and then pressed his lips together.

Widow leaned forward, gaze intent. “No,” she said. “Life is yours from birth until death. It is the only thing that can be taken away that matters. Dying needlessly is the height of stupidity, and any death that is not on your own terms is needless.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” Widow said. “Don’t be an idiot.”

“Why do you care?” Harry asked. “Why are you even here?”

Widow pursed her lips and sat back. She stared at Harry for a long time, and Harry felt himself bristling under her gaze.

“What?” he snapped.

“How old are you?”

“I’m eight-fucking-teen years old and it _doesn’t matter_.”

“When did you begin your training?”

Harry sneered and turned his head away. “Nice try.”

“You were young. Thirteen? Twelve?”

“Eleven, and before that I was verbally abused by my mother’s sister and her husband. The first time I killed someone I was eleven years old.” Harry laughed, staring defiantly up into Widow’s stony expression. “If you’re trying to convince me that I’m fucked up and that I have fucked up loyalties you don’t need to. But they’re my secrets, and if I choose to die for them, I will.”

“You sound like a child.”

“Fuck you.”

Natasha laughed this time, unexpectedly bright and utterly mocking. “I was wrong. You’re young, and you’re stupid. You’ll allow yourself to be killed in a fit of childish pique. Never mind,” she said, and stood up. “I’ll go and let Coulson know that you’re a waste of our time.”

Harry glared at the back of her head, and continued glaring until she disappeared from Harry’s sight. He seethed for a few hours, glaring at each of the cameras and at the medical personnel when they came to check the dressings on his wounds. When he next woke he was calmer, and spent the next few hours waiting for Coulson or Widow to show up.

Instead two men in kevlar marched in, an agent in a lab coat trailing behind them. Harry stared up at them, and wondered if this was it. Would he be taken somewhere and quietly taken care of? How would they do it? The medic suggested that it might be drugs, and the armed guards might just be there for the medic’s protection. He’d thought that he was ready for this, but staring it down he felt himself cower back. The medic reached for the IV tubing hanging above Harry’s head.

“Wait,” he said. “Wait! I want to talk to Agent Coulson.”

The medic stared at him dispassionately. “I have orders,” he said.

He depressed the syringe. Harry stared at the IV, breathing quickly and flexing his fingers.

“I want to talk to Agent Coulson,” he said again.

The medic didn’t answer. The agents in kevlar remained silent as well. Harry closed his eyes, and his head settled back onto the thin hospital pillow.

“I want to talk to Agent Coulson,” he said, and the words sounded wrong, blurred.

The world began to fall away, but Harry fought. He was not ready to die. He could feel the drug, and he hated it for what it was doing to him. He blinked. The world tipped sideways, and then fell away completely.

 

***

Phil was sure to make himself comfortable in Fury’s office by the time the director stalks through the door. Phil doesn’t look up, instead he sipped peacefully on his coffee as Fury stepped around him, and settled in his chair. Fury was not looking at him. He made himself busy pulling up his email. Coulson settled back in his chair, and waited. Eventually Fury sighed, and turned his unamused gaze onto Phil, who offered him a thin smile in return.

“Spit it out,” Director Fury said.

“My report on Nightshade passed your desk three days ago. I need your permission to move forward sir.”

“Do we have a real name yet?” the Director asked. Phil didn’t sigh; he was better trained than that. Instead he smiled again and said, “There are a few possibles. Without verification there’s no way of knowing for sure.”

“And you haven’t gotten this verification yet?”

Phil accepted the jab with a peaceful nod. “No sir.”

Fury leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “We have no way of knowing who this kid is. He’s been resistant to all our attempts to debrief him. Why should we give a damn if he doesn’t?”

Phil stalled by sipping at his coffee again. Fury watched him, his bearing only slightly impatient.

“Barton asked me to try.”

“Barton has a bad habit of picking up strays. Soon he’s gonna figure out that not all rabid animals can be tamed.” Phil nodded, conceding the Director’s point. He remained silent, watching Fury expectantly. Finally, Fury sighed, his impatience cresting. “What do you recommend?”

His official recommendation was in his report, but he knew what Fury was actually asking for.

“He’s young, and very well conditioned. With time—.”

“How much time?”

Phil shrugged. “I’m not going to get through to him. Barton might. Romanova gave a passing attempt, but I’m sure that given the opportunity—.”

“You want to tie up our two best operatives in something that might not even pan out.”

Phil frowned, making his annoyance at being interrupted visible. Fury’s eyebrows shot up, but that was the only sign of his amusement. Phil sighed lightly through his nose.

“If we can turn Nightshade, it would be a valuable addition to the agency.”

“What do we know about his abilities? Is he a mutant? Human plus? What?”

These were all answers that Fury already had, and again, Phil knew why he was being asked. Even so, he said, “Intelligence leans towards human plus but we haven’t seen any evidence of augmented abilities.”

Fury turned away, his attention settling somewhere past Phil’s right shoulder as he fell into his own thoughts. Phil sipped at his lukewarm coffee, waiting for the director to make up his mind. Fury sighed deeply, and pinned Phil with his steely singled eyed gaze.

“Two weeks.”

“Six.”

Fury’s eye narrowed. “Four.”

Phil tipped his head to the side. “Four,” he conceded.

“We can’t allow him to go free if we can’t turn him,” Fury warned.

Phil gulped down the rest of his coffee, getting to his feet at the same time. “I’ll do my best sir.”

Fury nodded, and turned back to his computer.

Phil wasn’t really surprised that Barton was lingering outside his office door. He perked up when Phil approached, and trailed Phil into his office, closing the door behind them.

“So?”

Phil settled himself behind his desk, his eyebrows rising in question. “So what?”

“What did the Director say?”

“He said that you need to stop bringing strays home.”

Barton hopped onto the chair in front of the desk, perching on the back with his booted feet resting on the seat. Phil eyed him disapprovingly but didn’t say anything. Barton offered him a grin in return.

“You saw the kid in action. It would be a waste not to try to turn him.”

“So you say,” Phil said, pulling up the paperwork needed to transfer Romanova and Barton to HQ for the next month.

“What else did he say?”

“We have four weeks to make him see sense. When we’re done here, go track down Romanova so I can brief you both properly.”

“Wait me? I’m in charge of deprograming him? I don’t have any experience with something like that.” Phil glanced up from the screen in order to raise his eyebrows. Barton shrugged. “Nat doesn’t count.”

“You know she does,” Phil said. “And I just said that she’ll be helping you.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“If you want the kid around, we don’t have a choice. I won’t get through to him. You and Romanova have the best chance.” Phil turned back to his computer, not looking as he heard Barton hop down from the chair and move toward the door.

“Start at the name,” Phil said. “And be yourself.”  

 

***

Harry preferred the hospital room. There at least had been the occasional distracting visit. Here there was nothing but gray concrete walls, a reinforced metal door, a low rimless toilet, and a small, barely padded ledge that he assumed was for sleeping on. He had considered attempting to break free for a while, but he had no way of knowing what was on the other side of the door. The light was soft and diffused, no chance of shadows. He was sure that he was under surveillance, but he was unable to pin down the location of the hidden cameras.

In the few hours since Harry had woken no one had entered to speak to him. After he’d examined the room, Harry had removed the scrub pants he’d been dressed in to examine the liquid stitches holding the gash in his leg together. It was healing well, and he could move with little pain - good to know. Then he settled back onto the uncomfortable ledge to doze.

The door groaning open made him open his eyes, and he watched as armored agents carried in a card table and two chairs. They left without saying a word, the door thudding closed behind them. Harry debated getting up, but ultimately decided not to. A few minutes later the door opened again. Harry remembered him at once, but remembering how Hawkeye had reacted to not being recognized the night Harry had been captured, Harry was sure to keep his expression blank.

“Hey,” Hawkeye greeted and collapsed into one of the chairs.

Harry did not return the greeting, instead watching Hawkeye warily from where he was sitting on the padded ledge.

Hawkeye pulled a battered deck of cards from his pocket and began lining them up on the table. Harry watched him carefully for a few moments before losing interest and turning away.

“You want to tell me your name?” Hawkeye asked.

Harry contemplated remaining silent before huffing and saying, “No.”

“That’s okay,” Hawkeye said without looking up from his cards. “How about I try to guess and if I get it right you give me a sign, okay?” Harry didn’t respond but apparently Hawkeye didn’t need him to. “Widow says that you’re from England. She wanted me to tell you that you need to work harder on burying that accent.”

Harry opened his eyes and turned to glower at Hawkeye. “Noted.”

Hawkeye grinned at him, and turned back to his game. “Is it a typical English name, like Reginald? Oh! Or Winston?”

“I’m offended on behalf of Englishmen everywhere.”

“John? Garvin? Kenneth? Darrel?”

Harry drew his arm over his eyes.

“Roger? Daniel? Aaron?”

Sighing harshly through his nose Harry muttered his name to the inside of his elbow.

“What was that?”

Harry gritted his teeth, suddenly angry that the agent’s juvenile tactic had almost worked. “Why are you here?” Harry asked. “I’m not going to tell you anything.”

Hawkeye just shook his head and went back to his game of solitaire. “My name’s Clint,” he said.

“Good for you.”

“Here I would remind you that I showed you mine so you should show me yours, but I know that you don’t care.”

Harry huffed, slightly amused despite the inappropriateness of his currently situation.

A few hours later Harry was no longer enjoying himself.

“Freddy? Theo? Dick? Ted? Harold?”

Harry lifted his head. Clint looked up from the game he was playing on his phone, his expression suddenly very interested. “Is that it? Harold?”

“Harrison, technically,” Harry said, anything to make Hawkeye stop. “When I had friends they called me Harry."

“All right,” Clint said. “Nightshade aka Harry who-pretends-that-he’s-not-from-England. 

Harry pressed his lips together, and lowered his head back onto his folded arms.

“Our medics say that you’re sixteen tops. What’s a kid like you doing in a place like this?”

“Eighteen,” Harry said before he could stop himself. “And if that was a short joke, consider me offended.” A moment later he hit his fist against the stone ledge in an unconscious show of frustration.

Clint was quiet for a moment. Then he repeated, “Eighteen,” his tone slightly incredulous.

“Don’t you have something to do?”

“No. This is what they’re paying me for. At least for the next few weeks.” Harry heard Clint set his phone down on the table. When he looked up Clint was looking back at him, his expression as serious as Harry had seen it. “I’m going to be honest with you,” he said. “You have information we need about the League of Shadows.”

Harry flinched back, his gaze skittering across the card table for something to fasten to. Clint leaned forward, his expression turning even more serious.

“Yes, we know about them and yes, we know that they trained you. I’ve been given four weeks to get that intel from you. If you remain uncooperative the Director will have you terminated. Do you understand Harry?”

Harry took a slow breath, allowing his eyes to close for a moment before looking up. “You can’t do that.”

“Yes we can.”

“I’m in America aren’t I? Prisoners have rights here. Is your government really going to get behind executing someone without a trial?” 

“Nice try kid. You’re an unaffiliated agent. No one is going to fight for you.”

“You won’t kill me.”

Clint stared at him evenly for a long time, long enough that Harry began to grow uncomfortable. “I don’t want to,” he finally said. “But I will.” He gathered up his phone and stood up. “Think about it.”

Harry watched the door for a while after Clint left, expecting someone to come in to collect the table and chairs. When no one did, Harry’s attention waned. He closed his eyes, prepared to doze until something interesting happened.

Immediately a piercing siren began wailing from some unseen source. It filled the room, bouncing off the smooth walls. Harry jolted, his hands coming up to cover his ears. It didn’t matter. He could feel the sound vibrating inside his bones, thrashing against the sides of his skull.

Suddenly it was over. Harry slumped, hands still cupping his ears, which were ringing in the aftermath. The whole thing had taken no more than thirty seconds. Slowly he realized that he was shaking, his breath coming fast and shallow. 

“All right,” he said. He looked up, searching the corners of the room and finding nothing. It didn’t matter — he knew that they were watching. “All right,” he said again, louder.

 

*** 

Hours later, maybe even days, Clint reappeared and tossed a protein bar and two bottles of water onto Harry’s stomach. Harry stared at him blearily and shrugged to sit up from his prone position on the ledge. Clint made himself comfortable in his chair, unaffected by Harry’s shaking hands.

“You’re looking a little tired Harry.”

Harry looked up from one of the water bottles. He was too tired to be amused and was edging steadily to extreme annoyance.

“I was on a job once,” Harry said. “Standard infiltration that went complicated. I was trapped in hostile territory for three days. No sleep and no food.” He waved a disdainful hand. “This is nothing. You’re nothing.”

Clint grinned at him, the expression inappropriately genuine. “Really? Tell me about it.”

“Nice try.”

Clint leaned back in the flimsy chair, appearing more comfortable than Harry thought possible in one of those things. He sighed, shaking his head ruefully as he stared up at the ceiling.

“I had one of those once. It was just supposed to be intel gathering. Things went south. I ended up separated from the rest of the team. Four days in the wilderness before I reestablished contact. Who bailed you out?”

“What?”

“When you were stuck in hostile territory, who bailed you out?”

It was a stupid question, and Harry scowled at him. “No one.”

Clint nodded slowly, as if Harry had said something expected. “Is that how the League usually operates?”

Harry tossed the unopened water bottle onto the table. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Clint leaned forward his expression finally betraying his frustration. “How about you make me understand why an organization would take an underage kid and leave him behind in hostile territory. Why do you owe them your loyalty? Are they worth dying for?”

“Yes,” Harry said without hesitation.

“Why?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Harry said, and then pressed his lips together, banging his head back onto the hard concrete in frustration.

“Make me understand.”

“Get out,” Harry said, and risked closing his eyes.

The room remained blessedly silent, and Harry allowed himself to relax for just a moment. As soon as he did the siren began and Harry’s eyes flew open. Clint was sitting in the chair, expression hard. He gave no indication that he could hear the wailing. When it stopped a few moments later, Clint reached for his ears. When he moved his hands Harry noticed the buds for the first time. They looked a lot like ear plugs, but were made of metal, with a blue indicator light glowing dully. The light turned off as Harry watched.

“You’re an asshole,” Harry said, struggling to control his breathing.

“Yep.”

“I don’t want to tell you anything.”

“But you probably do.”

Ears ringing anew, it took a moment for Harry to decode that statement. When he did, he scowled. “I’m sure I don’t,” he said.

“I read somewhere that people have this compulsion to try to convince someone that they’re right if they’re in disagreement. To me, it makes absolutely no sense to give loyalty to an organization that won’t save me if I’m in trouble. So make me understand. Just give me that.”

Harry closed his eyes, but they flew open warily an instant later, his gaze darting to the ceiling.

“I can arrange for you to sleep for a few hours,” Clint said. “Just give me something.”

A headache was beginning to pound its way through Harry’s temples. His eyes felt huge, gritty. Even his face was beginning to ache. Even an hour, and he would feel better. 

“I got into trouble when I was young. The League took me in and taught me what I needed to know to protect myself.”

“So you owe them?”

Harry shook his head. “I was part of them. A part of something. The Master…” Harry literally bit his tongue, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“I think I get it.” Harry’s head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at Clint, who shrugged easily. “When I was young, someone took me in too. I grew up in a circus. Most of us were strays. Together we made a whole.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said warily. “Something like that.”

Clint stood, pulling more bottles of water and protein bars out of his pocket and arranging them on the table. “Get some rest,” he said.

Harry lowered himself onto the thin cushion, his knees tucked in almost to his chin. He closed his eyes, body tense. The siren did not kick on and Harry released a slow breath.

 

***

Natasha was sitting in the observation room when Clint entered, silently terrorizing the tech seated next to her. The man visibly relaxed when Clint collapsed into the only other chair.

“Good,” Natasha said without looking at him, her voice distant. “The next shift is mine.”

“Do you think we can turn him?”

“Yes,” Natasha said promptly. “I have no doubt. I’d be surprised if he makes it to the third week. He needs structure. For whatever reason he’s been separated from the League — not by his choice. He needs to belong to something.”

“How are you so sure?” Clint asked, and he fully expected the question to be deflected.

There was only one way Natasha could subscribe so resolutely to what she was saying. In the years they’d known each other she’d only spoken of her childhood once. It had been all Clint needed.

She finally turned her head to look at him, her dark green eyes hard and cold. She didn’t say anything, but he supposed that it was answer enough.

***

It felt like Harry had only been sleeping for a few minutes before he was awake again. He opened his eyes, staring up at the featureless ceiling for a long moment. Then he turned his head to stare at Widow, who was perched primly in Clint’s chair.

“Are you supposed to be the bad cop?”

Her eyebrows rose. “Have you given any thought to what we spoke about last time?”

“Nothing to do here but think.”

Widow leaned back in the chair, her arms crossed over her chest. “I didn’t always work with SHIELD,” she said. “I was a spy for the USSR, when it was still a thing. Long story short, Clint was sent to kill me.”

Harry let his eyes wander over her, and tilted his head to the side. “Yet here you are.”

“Here I am,” Widow agreed. “Instead of killing me, he asked me if it was worth it, working for people who didn’t care about me. It wasn’t.”

“How do you know that no one cares about me?”

Widow raised her hands and spread them. “Look where you are. No one is coming for you. I could pull out my firearm and shoot you in the face and no one would care beyond the mess your brains would leave behind.”

Widow pulled another protein bar and water bottle out of her pocket and tossed them into the growing pile at the foot of the ledge. “I’m not saying that SHIELD is perfect,” she said. “Nothing is perfect. Being here would at least be _your_ choice _._ I’m guessing that you haven’t had much choice in your life. Think about it.”

She stood up to go. Harry cleared his throat and she paused.

“Is it true? About Red Room?”

Widow’s eyes narrowed and for a long moment Harry was sure that she would leave without answering. “My first was when I was ten,” she finally said, all the more chilling for the utter flatness of her voice.

The door groaned open, and slammed resolutely shut behind her.

Harry sat for a long moment, rubbing his hand over his face. He glanced at the small pile of foil wrapped bars and plastic water bottles, trying to ignore that yawning maw his stomach had turned into. He was hungry, he admitted to himself. He was thirsty too, and tired.

But the League was not the same as Red Room. The Master had sought him out, but Harry had entered training voluntarily. It had been months since he’d heard from the Master or any of the others, but their parting had not been in anger. If he attempted to search them out, he was sure that they would welcome him back. They had wanted him when no one else had. They had taught him what he’d needed to know to do what was necessary, when everyone else had insisted on coddling him. Now he did nothing that he did not want to do — Widow had no idea what she was talking about. 

***

Things continued. Clint would come in and pester him until Harry let something slip in frustration. Initially the slips were small. Things like his favorite beer, or which grade of chocolate was better, white, milk, or dark. Every time it happened he clammed up, growing hostile. It never seemed to bother Clint, who left and returned a few hours to a few days after. Widow visited as well, and relentlessly laid down her brand of truth before cat-walking out.

In between was the siren, which sounded every time he kept his eyes closed for more than a few seconds. He was allowed sleep, but he could never predict when. High calorie food bars were delivered a few times a day. Sometimes Clint brought him an apple or orange. Every few two days, two armed guards arrived, put his hands in cuffs and escorted him out of the room and a few yards down the hallway to a small room where lukewarm water rained down from the ceiling.

More than a week later, Widow asked, “Do you know why you’re still here?”

Harry glanced up from the orange he was peeling, his elbows planted on the card table. “I have this feeling that you’re going to tell me.”

“You’re here because you don’t have anywhere else to go.” Like always, her words rang just true enough to make Harry uncomfortable, so he kept his head down. “With your training you could have made a few serious attempts. We left openings on purpose, just to see what you would do. Is it because you don’t care whether you live or die?" 

Harry popped an orange slice in his mouth. “You’re the smartest Red.” He offered her an orange slice, passing it across the card table.

Surprisingly, she took it, propping her feet up on the table. She stared at him for a long moment. “Clint likes you.”

“It’s because I haven’t tried to strangle him yet.”

The corners of Widow’s mouth turned in, like she was suppressing a smile. “He has that effect.”

She paused, her head tilting to the side. “He is still vouching for you, even though the higher ups are getting impatient. He thinks that you’re another me, and that you just need something to belong to.”

“And do you belong here?” The question burst forth without Harry’s permission, but there was no taking it back now. 

Natasha tapped one of her feet idly, staring into his eyes like she was looking right through him. It should have made him uncomfortable, but he was used to such looks, first from his Master and now occasionally from Red. 

“Yes,” she finally said. “Its better than dying.”

Harry shoved the last of the orange in his mouth. He swallowed, his gaze falling from hers for a moment. “Maybe it’s not.”

She didn’t move, but she did hold her breath for a moment. Her expression didn’t change, but suddenly he had the whole of her attention — he hadn’t even known that part of it was missing until he was faced with all of it. It was heady, and it made him just uncomfortable enough to lower his gaze. He cleared his throat, and when he looked up Widow was still waiting.

“They saved me. No one else had ever cared enough to teach me what I need to know.”

Widow lowered her legs and leaned forward, easing her way into Harry’s personal space so smoothly that he only noticed when her forehead was scant inches from his. He glanced up into her eyes, and saw no censure there.

“You needed to protect yourself.”

“Not just me. Everyone.”

Her eyes narrowed, not in judgment, but in confusion. Harry shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Harry shook his head again. “It’s over. Everything’s over. There’s nothing left.” He leaned back in the chair, recreating the distance that she had taken from him.

She didn’t understand what he meant. She had to know that she almost had him. Harry knew, distantly, that she and Clint had been working towards this. They brought him food, were the only people he had spoken to for weeks. They were building trust, destroying his walls.

He’d let it happen, he realized suddenly.

“Tell me,” she said.

Harry pressed his lips together. “It’s all that I have.”

Suddenly he leaned forward, folding his hands between them on the table. Red barely shifted, obviously considering him a non-threat. And when had that happened?

“I won’t work against SHIELD,” he said. “Please, let me go.”

There was no give in Widow’s expression, but Harry hadn’t truly expected to see any. There was no need for her to shake her head, or to say anything at all. Still, she reached forward and wrapped her small strong hand around his wrist.

“You’re a smart kid Harry,” she said. “Clint told you that the director will terminate you if you don’t give us what we need. He’s telling the truth, and we’re running out of time. You say the League taught you how to take care of yourself. Don’t you think that they would understand that you need to tell them what they need to know to save yourself?”

Harry hesitated, because the answer should have been yes. Death was not supposed to frighten him, only failure. His life had been necessary to destroy Voldemort -- it had mattered then. Now, there was no mission, only loyalty. 

“My name is Natasha,” she suddenly said, distracting Harry from his circling thoughts.

Harry realized that he had been holding his breath, and exhaled shakily. “I like my name for you more.”

Natasha tilted her head to the side, and her expression turned hard again. “Harry.” Her hand was still on his wrist.

When was the last time someone had touched him without intending to harm him? Skin suddenly crawling, he shook her off. He stood, threaded his fingers though his hair and began to pace. She remained seated.

She said his name again, and he spun on her, his hands clenched into fists. “What do you want from me?!”

“Nothing that you can’t easily give,” she said.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Yes it is.” She leaned forward, bracing her arms on the card table. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but follow the logic. If they cared about you they would want you to tell us what we want to know. If they don’t care then there’s no reason to keep their secrets.”

Harry tugged at his hair. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is,” she said.

Harry paced for a few moments, fingers still tangled in his hair.

She said his name again, and he turned to her. He didn’t know what he was going to say until he’d already said it. “What should I do?”

Her lips pressed together and it was a long moment until she spoke. “It’s _your_ choice,” she said. “I won’t make it for you.” She paused again. “You have your life. No matter what, that belongs to you. I would be careful how you spend it.”

He stared at her, waiting for instruction, for orders. Some part of him, the small distant part, realized that she had him now -- she could ask him anything, and he would happily tell her – and was horrified. Was he so weak, that she could reach inside him and say exactly the right thing? He walked over to the ledge and sat down, his legs weak. He kept his head down, digging his fingertips into his legs. When he looked up Natasha was still looking at him, waiting for him to choose.

The words came haltingly at first. He started at the beginning, and told her a lot, more than he’d told any single person before. When his mouth grew dry, she produced water for him. When he paused, unsure if he could continue, she waited patiently. When he was done she only looked at him, non-judging and unsurprised. 

Harry expected to feel…something. He had betrayed his brothers, betrayed the Master. Instead he felt buoyant, like he could float away. 

 

***

In the observation room, Clint leaned back in his chair. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, and found it surprisingly easy to digest the idea of ‘magic.’ Next to him, Coulson seemed to have no problem at all accommodating all this information. He was standing now, buttoning his jacket. Clint stared at him, waiting for instructions.

“Move him,” Coulson said. “Get him a proper meal. Let him sleep until he wakes up. We’ll continue when he’s ready.”

“That’s it?” Clint asked.

Coulson turned to him, expression as placid as it always was. “I’ll talk to the Director.”

“He’s in right?” Clint waved his hand at the monitors where Nat was watching Harry sit in exhausted silence. “He gave us everything we asked for and more. We can’t just—.”

“What did I tell you about strays, Barton?” 

It wasn’t an answer, but Clint smiled anyway. It wasn’t a refusal either. His handler left the room, but Clint didn’t move right away. Inside he turned back to the monitor, watching his partner and the kid — Harry. He had been the one to bring her in, but Coulson had been the one to debrief her. She had come to them voluntarily; preferring to change allegiance then face execution. She had told them just enough. Clint couldn’t be sure, but he had a feeling that Harry was barely holding back. He wondered how long had twisted in the wind, unable to confide in anyone. He sat, rubbing his hand over his face for another moment. Then he hopped to his feet. He imputed his code into the panel next to the door. Natasha was on her feet when it opened, her brow furrowed in question. Clint offered her a smile. She nodded and stepped aside.

“Hey kid.”

Harry looked up at him, his eyes bloodshot, his face tinted gray with exhaustion. He lifted a languid hand in greeting, and managed to look slightly expectant.

“We’re going to move you somewhere more comfortable,” Clint said.

He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. Harry wordlessly offered his hands, and Clint snapped the cuffs on. He had to prod Harry in the shoulder to get him on his feet, and then again to get him moving. The kid was walking like a zombie, his gaze on his feet. Clint shared at look with Natasha over his head, but she looked relatively unworried. Clint took his cues from her, watching as she took Harry by the arm and began leading him from the room.

They took him up a floor -- still detainment but the rooms had real beds with actual blankets. As soon as the door was open Harry shuffled into the cell and collapsed face first on the bed, his head at the foot and his bound hands trapped underneath him. Clint dithered over what to do, but Natasha left, appearing a moment later with a standard issue gray blanket. She shook it out and tossed it over Harry without bothering to maneuver him into a more comfortable position.

“Do you know now long we’d been partners before you tucked me in?” Clint asked. “Nine months.”

“I’m better looking than you,” Harry said into the mattress.

Clint eyebrows shot up. “He wishes.”

Natasha shook her head, and didn’t bother to comment. “Do you want to eat or sleep?" 

Harry’s groan was muffled by the blanket. “Sleep.”

“All right. Sleep now, eat later.”

Harry sighed, his body visibly sinking into the bed. He was probably already asleep, but Clint wasn’t so stupid to think that he should poke him and find out. He’d known and had cultivated trust with Nat for years and he would still never dare to do that. She was standing at the door, her head tipped to the side as she waited for Clint to join her. She thumbed the door closed, and punched in the code to keep it locked. They stared at each other for a moment, Clint waiting for her to speak.

Instead her shoulders fell and she frowned.

“Do you need Coulson?” Clint asked.

She shook her head, but still looked troubled. “The roof?”

“Sure. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

They rode the elevator up. It was the nebulous time between late and early so they didn’t meet anyone on the way. They didn’t actually have access to the roof. It was an easy point of ingress in case of an attack, so it was easier to restrict access completely. Instead they sought out a narrow balcony that agents used to smoke on their breaks.

They were high enough above the street that sounds barely reached them. There was just the wind, the sea of glass and steel, and the sky that was just beginning to turn gray with dawn. Nat leaned against the railing and glared out at the sky like it had called her a nasty name. Clint let her brood, confident that she would speak if and when she was ready to. He didn’t have to wait long; only a few minutes later she slammed her fist into the railing so hard that it bent slightly.

Nat was usually so careful not to let things like that slip, which was why Clint drew back in surprise. It seemed that it was the only show of anger that she was going to offer, so Clint relaxed, and turned to stare at her expectantly.

“I didn’t like it when they did it to me, and I don’t like it that someone did it to him,” she finally said.

Clint nodded. “You both had it rough.”

“I really don’t like it Clint.”

She wasn’t looking for him to agree; she already knew that he did. Again, Clint courted the inclination to search down their handler. Coulson usually knew exactly what each of them needed to hear. He wouldn’t leave Nat though. It wasn’t that he thought she would do something foolish. She had _asked_ for him, something that she had only done a handful of times in their entire partnership.

She took a slow breath and then released it, the tension in her shoulders and neck oozing out as she fought to gather herself. She managed it— of course she did.

“Feel better?” he asked. She nodded, running a hand through her hair and squeezing the back of her neck. “Coulson said that we can have a few hours. Sleep or food?”

The corners of Natasha’s mouth turned in, the look she got whenever she was suppressing a smile.

“Food, then sleep.”

 

***

His body was sore when he woke, which wasn’t an unusual occurrence. It wasn’t the ache of overuse however. This was an ache that he wasn’t as familiar with, one that came with a body having lain in one position for too long. Someone had removed the cuffs and turned him over. If he were more awake Harry might have felt uncomfortable at being touched without his knowledge.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, but couldn’t move much beyond that. He thought yearningly of coffee, and managed to lose track of time. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, eyes open but thoughts drifting, before the door opened. Clint had ditched the uniform for a dark t-shirt and jeans. More importantly he was holding a ceramic cup in his hand. Harry would recognize that smell anywhere.

Clint said something, probably a greeting, but Harry wasn’t listening. He levered himself up onto one elbow and reached for the mug with his free hand, his eyes mostly closed. Enough time passed where there was no coffee in his hand, so he grunted and made a ‘gimme’ motion with his fingers.

“Oh my god,” Clint said. He pressed the mug into Harry’s hand. “I wish I had a camera.”

Harry gulped down the rest of Clint’s coffee with an appreciative hum. He clumsily passed the cup back, and pushed himself upright, swinging his feet off the bed.

“Mirror,” he slurred.

“Through there.”

Harry shuffled past him into the bathroom. He sloppily washed his hands, and then removed his contacts, operating almost entirely on autopilot. Without the case he had no where to put them, so he placed them on the edge of the sink, blinking blearily. When he turned around he almost ran straight into Clint, who had entered the bathroom behind him.

“You had those in this entire time?”

Harry didn’t respond. He didn’t have nearly enough coffee in him to be polite yet.

Clint didn’t seem put off, but Harry had to squint to even make out his expression, so what did he know. 

“I here to escort you to the mess,” Clint said.

Harry grumbled something at him, and raised his hands for the cuffs. Instead Clint took his arm and tugged him along. The mess was nearly empty, and Clint deposited him at the only occupied table. He squinted at the dark blur in front of him, and was able to make out a single glaring eye in a stern dark face. Agent Coulson was seating next to the dark figure, hands folded on the tabletop.

“Hold on Director. He’s going to be useless to you without this.”

A mug was set in front of him, full of steaming bitter blessed coffee. Harry stuck his face in it, breathing deeply before he beginning to drink, never-mind the threat of burning himself.

When he came up for air, he was more awake, and mourned the absence of his glasses.

“Barton and Romanova have assured us that you’ll be cooperative from now on,” Agent Coulson said.

“Yeah.”

“Good. We were able to corroborate some of the information you gave us,” Coulson said. “We need to talk about the magic.”

“Don’t believe me?”

“We believe you,” the darkly dressed man said.

Harry squinted at him. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Director Nick Fury.”

Oh. “Good to meet you Director Fury. Thanks for not having me killed.”

“You wising up gave us a reason to keep you around,” Fury said.

Harry frowned at him, bristling at his tone. Clint, who was sitting next to him shifted meaningfully. It distracted Harry from his annoyance and gave him a moment to calm himself before he said or did anything unfortunate.

“About the magic,” Coulson said, unrelenting. “You need to understand that that information is extremely classified.” He turned, addressing Clint as well. “The _highest_ clearance level. Understood.”

“Yes sir,” Clint said.

Harry tilted his head to the side, looking between Fury and Coulson. “You already knew.” Neither one of them spoke, regarding Harry stonily for a long moment. Harry’s eyes narrowed in realization “No,” he said. “But you had an idea, and now you have proof.”

Fury narrowed his eye, but Coulson nodded. “We would like you to give us as much information as you can.”

Harry hesitated for a moment. Then making no effort to hide his wariness said, “All my experience was in England, and the last I heard, things weren’t going so great over there.”

Coulson nodded, “You’ll give us what you can.”

“So that’s it? I give you the information you want and you fold me into your operation? Just like that?”

It was Fury that spoke, his firm expression actually giving a little. “Yeah Potter. Just like that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry feels out the boundaries. The aftermath of war is never pretty.

On the second anniversary of her induction and over a bottle of high shelf scotch, Agent Hill had asked him if he regretted joining SHIELD. Phil hadn’t even needed to think before answering. It was true that it was unlikely that he would have a family. It was equally unlikely that he would survive to die of old age. It was a high stress job; his decisions had impact not only on the people working directly underneath him, but civilians as well.

No, Phil in no way regretted his decision. He was good at his job, second only to the Director. Highest possible clearance. He thrived on the stress. The decisions had to be made, and it was his responsibility to make them. In some areas, he was the best person for the job. Ego aside, it was a heady feeling.

Clint Barton had been instated into SHIELD just after his twentieth birthday. He had gone through four handlers before Phil had been assigned to him. Barton had tested him, disappeared, ignored orders, everything he could think of to make Phil go the way of the rest. None of it had worked. Eventually Barton had settled, and then he’d gone on to become one of SHIELD’s greatest assets.

There had been little discussion when considering who would act as Romanova’s handler. The fact was that Phil had turned her. Barton had begun the process, but Phil had made it stick. So she was his by default.

When it came to who would have the honor of wrangling Potter, there was no discussion at all.

“We test all new agents this way,” Phil explained. It was nothing that he hadn’t said before, yet Potter remained rooted in the center of the room, eyeing the chair and the equipment warily.

He was wearing his glasses today, and they made him look even younger. With the information he’d given them, they had managed to track down his birth records. He truly was eighteen, though his stature and features often made him look much younger, his attitude usually made up for it.

“Electronics don’t do well around me,” Potter said.

“You’ve said,” Phil said, and nodded to the chair.

Potter didn’t want to. His expression was carefully blank, but it was Phil’s job to know. The first few weeks were the hardest. Trust needed to be built, and right now there was absolutely no reason for Harry to follow orders besides the fact that he would be terminated if he didn’t. It was careful work, a dance of words and deeds working deliberately to the ultimate goal.

“We need a baseline reading,” Phil said. “We want to understand how it works, just in case something goes wrong.”

Potter’s lips twisted derisively and he shook his head. He sighed, expression hardening in defiance.

The explanation of his abilities had been concise.

“I used to use magic,” he’d said. “I was part of a ritual. I can’t anymore.”

There was more to it; of course there was. At the time Phil was more interested in the League, not how Potter had ended up there.

“We have information which leads us to believe that you have super-human abilities. Could that be attributed to you being a wizard?” Phil had asked.

“Sort of.” Potter had clammed up then, and Phil hadn’t felt the need to push.

The fact was, SHIELD had suspected that Potter was human plus for a long time. The use of magic was simply an explanation. The full range of his abilities needed to be documented.

“I understand your hesitation,” Phil said, and Harry glowered at him. Phil offered him a thin smile in return. “You have my word that this information will not be used against you. We’re only interested in your abilities.”

“Your word,” Potter repeated. He eyed Phil for a long moment, and Phil knew that this was not going to be easy.

Phil turned to the scientists standing by. “Give us the room gentlemen.” They grumbled but marched out.

Their sudden isolation acted as permission, and Potter’s wary stillness gave way to nervous pacing. Phil slid his hands into his slack pockets and watched for a moment before remembering that Potter was more like Natasha in this; he would remain silent unless prompted. 

“You have no reason to trust us yet,” he said.

Potter glanced at him, before looking down at his feet. He was frowning, chewing on one of his thumbnails.

“No,” Potter said. “I really don’t." 

Phil tilted his head to the side, watching Potter thoughtfully for a long moment. Then he sighed and settled into the chair.

“Trust can be a complicated thing,” Phil said. Potter stopped pacing and stared at him, his eyes narrowed. Phil smiled at him. “Romanova doesn’t trust us.” 

“She doesn’t trust anyone.”

Phil nodded. “Yet she works for us. Has she told you why?” 

“She said it was better than dying.”

Phil paused, staring at Potter meaningfully for a long moment. “There’s more to it. She trusts that we won’t hurt her - that we’ll take care of her. She believes in what we’re trying to accomplish here.”

Potter stepped closer, and for the first time Phil saw genuine curiosity in him, untempered. In her initial profile, Romanova had said that Potter would turn if given the opportunity simply because he sought to belong to something. Phil saw now what she had seen then, and knew Potter’s question before he asked it.

“We want to make people safe,” Phil said. “We protect people from threats they can’t handle on their own.”

Potter was quiet for a long moment. “You were willing to kill me,” Potter said. “Like I was one of these _threats_.” 

It wasn’t said angrily, like Phil thought it might’ve been. Suddenly he understood and he leaned forward, arranging his face into as serious an expression that he could manage. 

“Yes,” he said. “We would have killed you, but it wasn’t because we wanted to. All we knew of you was that you were known to work for agencies that actively have worked against SHIELD in the past and rumors that you had contact with the League of Shadows. If we’d wanted to kill you, we wouldn’t have bothered to bring you in in the first place.”

“So I’m safe as long as I’m of use?”

“Yes,” Phil said, and smiled. “But you and I know that that’s the world we live in, Potter.” He watched Potter’s pinched expression ease slightly, and stood up.

“You did what you did because you wanted to help people. That’s what we do here.”

“Help people,” Potter repeated, and wrinkled his nose derisively. “SHIELD helps the people that it deems deserving of its help.”

Phil stuck his hand into his slack pockets, his head tilting to the side. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is.”

“Is it?” Phil leaned forward, hands still unthreatening ensconced in his pockets. “SHIELD is run by people. People disagree with each other. I’m not promising that we won’t come across individuals or groups that are against our interests, but as an organization our philosophy is against the loss of life. Deadly force is only used as a last resort. Can you say that the League of Shadows operates the same way?”

Potter’s eyes narrowed. “So you would kill me for the good of poor defenseless civilians everywhere?”

“Yes.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “That’s comforting.”

“It wouldn’t bring us any pleasure to do it,” Phil said. “It wouldn’t be a decision we made lightly." 

Potter stared at his shoes for a long moment. He looked up, unfettered curiosity back on his face. “Would they kill you, if you were a threat to SHIELD interests?”

“If there was no other way to make me see sense, then yes they would.”

Harry blinked and fell silent, expression thoughtful. Phil smiled and motioned to the chair. “Ready to show us what you can do?”

They both knew that Potter wouldn’t show SHIELD everything and Phil didn’t expect him to. Potter settled himself into the chair, muscles tense. He looked up at Phil, nose wrinkled.

“Let’s get this done. My shows are on soon.”

Phil shook his head ruefully and walked over to the door. The three scientists were lingering just outside, and perked up when Phil appeared.

“We’re ready for you.”

They moved quickly, like they were afraid that their subject might change his mind. They attached the leads, speaking only to confer with each other and to ask Potter to shift so they could get to certain areas of his body. All of the information from Potter’s physical was displayed on a bank of computer monitors nearby, and two of the men settled there. The third stayed close to Potter, checking over the equipment one more time.

“Are you ready, Agent Potter?”

Potter had closed his eyes when they were setting everything up. He opened them now, breathing slow and deliberate.

“It’s too bright,” he said. “Kill half the lights.”

The scientist, an older gray haired man named Bryan, rushed to do so, throwing the room into shadow. Potter sighed, his eyes closing briefly. When he opened them they had become luminescent, catching the scant light and shining it back out like an animal.

Bryan began talking notes at once, bending to peer curiously into Potter’s eyes. Potter glanced up at him, his face still, shoulders loose and his hands resting limply on the armrests.

“Step back,” he said.

Bryan hesitated a moment, and moved a single pace away. Potter took a deep breath. Phil wasn’t exactly sure how to describe what happened next. One moment Potter was there in the chair, his body held in purposeful stillness. The next a thick liquid darkness was exploding from his visible skin. In seconds it had covered him completely, leaving only his glowing eyes visible. Then that was gone as well. He was still there - Phil was sure of that. The leads attached to him hung in space where they had been attached, yet as hard as Phil looked he couldn’t make out the shape of his body.

Bryan had sucked in a sharp breath when Potter had disappeared, but now he stepped forward a hand outstretched.

“Agent Potter?”

“Yeah.”

Phil turned his head, tracking the voice that seemed to come from the room’s shadowed corners. The two scientists sitting in front of the computers jolted so sharply that Phil could hear it from the other side of the room.

“Barton’s going to be disappointed,” Phil said.

“What’d’you mean?”

“He’s been trying to get you to speak with an accent for weeks.”

Potter laughed, and it echoed, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. “There’s enough to keep track of when I’m like this,” he said.

“Where exactly are you, Agent Potter?” Bryan asked.

The shadows in the room deepened, flexing for a moment before pulling back. Potter’s eyes reappeared first. The shadows retracted as violently as they’d appeared. They did not disappear completely, instead existing as deep dark patches on Potter’s visible skin.

“Wow,” Bryan said, glancing away from Potter just long enough to scribble something down on his clipboard. “Do you produce this substance naturally? Where does it come from?”

Potter hesitated and glanced at Phil. Phil fought down his sudden urge to smile and offer praise. Instead he nodded.

“It’s my magic,” he said shortly. “No one could tell me why, but this is the only form it takes now.”

Bryan had had weeks to acclimatize to the idea of magic. Thankfully it wasn’t something entirely beyond SHIELD’s sphere of knowledge. With Potter’s induction they held the proof that had remained elusive for so long. If there was a specialist in the paranormal, it was Bryan. Phil was thankful for him now as he watched him fail to react to Potter’s nervousness.

The doctor hummed thoughtfully and placed his clipboard on a nearby rolling tray. “May I?” he asked, gesturing at Potter’s arm.

Potter took a deep breath, his eyes closing for a long moment. He nodded. Bryan snapped on a pair of gloves. He touched Potter’s arm, probing the skin around the dark patches first. He frowned, glancing up at the two young men at the computers.

“Body temp?”

“90.5 degrees and falling.”

Bryan glanced up at Potter’s face, expression warring between concern and fascination. “Are you cold Agent Potter?”

Potter blinked languidly. “Used to it,” he said. “It’s worse because I’m not moving.”

Bryan frowned at him, but continued his examination. He touched one of the dark spots sucking in a sharp breath as he did so. Phil leaned closer and tilted his head to the side as he observed Bryan’s fingers actually pass through the skin of Potter’s arm.

“Any sensation?” Bryan asked.

“Some,” Potter said.

“Sir,” one of the men at the computers called. “Body temp down to 87.3. BP 90/40.”

“Is this normal Agent Potter?” Bryan asked.

Potter took another slow breath and nodded. “Can’t hold it for much longer.”

“We’re done,” Bryan said quickly.

Almost before he was done speaking, Potter was reacting. His head tipped back and he hissed as the darkness was violently sucked back into his body through the pores in his visible skin. Phil flipped the lights back on, his eyebrows raising when Potter flinched and clenched his eyes shut. Bryan had snatched his clipboard and was writing as quickly as he could.

“Status?” he asked.

“Body temp 87.7 and rising. BP 90/50 - within normal range. He runs low.”

Bryan reached into the pocket of his lab coat and pulled out a small penlight. “Head up and glasses off, Agent Potter.”

Potter raised his head and removed his glasses with one hand, the other smoothing back his wild hair. Phil plucked the frames from his hand and tucked them into his own pocket. Potter glanced at him, brow furrowed, but soon hissed as Bryan shined the penlight into one of his eyes.

“We’re going to have to get you in for another eye exam,” Bryan said. “You having a tapetum lucidum isn’t in any of your records.”

“A what?”

“It’s what causes eyeshine in animals. Very handy in the dark.” Bryan leaned back. “I’d like to get you in for a deep scan, hopefully when your ability is active.”

“Unlikely,” Potter said. He was making no effort to hide the exhaustion in his voice. He stuck his hand out, palm turned up and fingers curled. Phil dropped his glasses into them. “Part of what strained me was making sure I didn’t blow out all your equipment.”

“And the drop in temperature and blood pressure? That’s normal?”

Potter nodded. “Pretty normal. It gets worse the longer I hold it.”

Bryan turned away to dispose of his gloves. “Get something to eat. No training for the rest of the day.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed, and he looked to Phil as if expecting him to intercede. Phil shook his head. “Doctor’s orders,” he said.

“I’m not twelve,” Potter said sharply.

“No,” Phil agreed. “But you are a SHIELD agent, and agents follow orders. Especially orders from medical.”

Potter got to his feet. “Fine. Can I go?”

Phil nodded. “Romanova and Barton are hiding on the roof.”

Potter frowned. “I thought you weren’t supposed to know about that.”

Phil stared at him for a long moment. Potter snorted gave a conceding nod. Phil watched Harry edge past Bryan and disappear through the doorway. As soon as he was gone, Bryan turned to Phil, his expression slightly pinched.

“I’m not sure what you and the director are expecting,” he said. “I’m operating blind.”

“We’re working on it,” Phil said. “Do what you can with Potter’s readings. We’ll get back to you.”

Bryan looked slightly mulish but had nothing more to say and a lot of work to do, so Phil left him. Fury was on the phone when he entered his office - not speaking but scowling powerfully into space. That scowl was immediately transferred to Phil, but Phil had seen worse. He made himself comfortable in his usual seat and waited.

“I understand,” Fury said. “But we’re operating with very little information. According to our source…” Fury fell silent, listening, his scowl deepening. “Footage of his debrief will be made available to you.” He hung up without offering any platitudes, but then, anyone who dealt with Fury on a regular basis was used to it.

“What is it?” Fury snapped.

“Potter demonstrated his abilities for us,” Phil said.

Fury folded his hands the desktop and leaned forward. “So?”

“It’s as he described it. I’m sure you’ll look at the footage later.”

Fury nodded, frowning into space for a moment. “And how’s he doing?”

“Good, considering.”

“Is he mission ready?”

Phil frowned. “It’s only been a few weeks, sir.”

Fury leaned forward and folded his hands together. He was silent for a long moment, examining Phil with his single eye. Then he sighed and dropped his hands onto the table.

“We’ve made contact with a member of the magical community,” he said.

Coulson sat back in his chair. “That was fast.”

“Dress anything up as a threat to national security and you get results,” Fury said, and he didn’t bother to hide his self satisfaction.

Phil stared at him for a long moment, his head tilted to the side. “Ah,” he finally said in realization. “How did you know?”

“My father saw some weird shit,” Fury said. “He crossed paths with a group when he was working with the OSS, during the war. Thankfully, he kept records of everything. At first he thought they were mutants, but their skills were too diverse. Orders came down to ignore it, and the investigation was closed.”

Phil was quiet for a long moment, before he sighed and said, “You knew about Potter.”

“I had a good idea. I knew that he was involved in the terrorist activities in England. He fell off the grid when he was eleven just like his mother. The only existing record of his father James Potter is his son’s birth certificate and a obit in a village newspaper. There are stories like that all over the U.K — the threads are thin, but they’re there.”

“All right,” Phil said. “And in the U.S?”

“If there’s a community of magic users in England, I’ve got to assume that there’s one here too, and someone in our government knows about it.”

“You think it’s an undercover operation, like the initial mutant program.”

Fury nodded. “And we know how well that turned out.”

“Are we going to get into another pissing match with the CIA, sir?”

Fury grinned, and it was not a pleasant expression on him. Phil had to assume that he knew, why else would he avoid smiling unless he was intimidating someone, or when he became too bloodthirsty to catch himself? If Phil were a lessor man, he would have shuddered. Instead he folded his head in his lap and smiled.

“I’ll do my best to ensure that Agent Potter is prepared. Who else are you thinking of assigning to the team.”

“You,” Fury said. “ _Just_ you. This is too sensitive. If it gets out before we’re ready, there could be an agency war, and that’s not something we can afford right now. Hill will keep an eye on the middle east for you.”

Phil recognized a dismissal when he heard one, and got to his feet, buttoning and smoothing down his jacket in one efficient motion.

“Barton and Romanova — ”

“— can exist without you. Hill can handle it.”

“If you say so, sir.”

Fury shook his head and turned back to his computer. Phil left, already thinking of the materials he would have to make available to Hill so she could take over their interests in the Middle East. For a moment he toyed with tracking her down and giving her new assignment himself, but he quickly quashed that idea. The director liked to do things like that himself. It was unfortunate that he wouldn’t get to see her expression when Fury told her that Barton and Romanova would be temporarily placed under her command. She had protested when Potter had been placed with him, though only privately.

“Why do you get all the cool toys?” she’d said, frowning into her morning coffee.

Phil had shrugged. “The cool ones tend to be the most trouble.” Then he’d distracted her by asking how Mockingbird’s last mission had gone.

He knew of course, and she knew that he knew. She’d allowed herself to be distracted anyway. Now she would get her wish — and good luck to her.

***

It was three days later when Potter stomped into his office and tossed a packet of papers on his desk.

“What the hell is this?”

Phil glanced over. “It’s a comprehensive list of your dietary restrictions.”

Potter’s jaw clenched. “Obviously. I meant where do you come off telling me what I can or can’t eat?”

Phil sighed and resisted the urge to rub away the headache he felt building in the bridge of his nose. “You’re underweight,” he said. “Your scans show —.”

“I bloody well know what my scans show!” Potter said, and stabbed at finger at Phil chest. “I’ve been doing just fine for years. I don’t need to go on a fucking diet!”

Phil closed his eyes for a moment. “Sit down Harry.”

“You can’t tell me —.”

“Harry,” Phil said. “Sit. Down.”

Potter glowered at him for a long heated moment, but then collapsed into Phil’s chair. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

“First of all, I am your handler and your direct supervisor. You will speak to me with respect.” Potter sucked in a furious breath, but Phil didn’t pause long enough to let him begin speaking. “Second, as your handler, it is my responsibility to make sure that you are able to do your job to the best of your ability. I know that this is all new to you, but I take this responsibility very seriously.” Phil leaned forward, seeking to make himself as clear as possible. “You are underweight, Harry. Our scans show that you have been underweight for the majority of your life. It’s affected your musculature and your metabolism. You’re young, so there’s still time to correct the damage before it becomes a permanent handicap."

Potter’s glare had eased slightly, and now he just looked uncomfortable. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Your bones don’t lie.”

The glower returned, just as strong and surly as ever. “I’ve managed just fine until now.”

“Yes you have,” Phil said. “But I’d rather you do better than ‘manage.’” He tilted his head to the side. “Ask Clint to tell you what his dietary restrictions were when he joined up.” He tapped his finger against the top sheet of the packet their in house nutritionist had prepared. “This is nothing.”

Potter’s face had cleared of any emotion. Phil wasn’t sure if he was hiding embarrassment or further outrage. Potter was chafing, Phil could easily see that, but this period was frustrating for him as well. These interactions were usually hit or miss. Phil was good, so there were very few misses, but every time he misstepped it had consequences. Clint had been easy, expressive and wild. Potter was more like Natasha, contained violence with various well hidden triggers. Phil watched Potter, and saw his shoulders slump in defeat.

“You can’t restrict my coffee,” Potter said.

“Yes we can. Coffee isn’t food.”

“I’ve lived three days off coffee grounds.”

“Impressive,” Phil said. “My point stands.” He turned back to this computer and pulled up an email from medical. “You missed your appointment with the optometrist.”

“Yeah well…” Phil turned and raised an eyebrow at him. “I have my glasses.”

“If you want the contacts you requested, we need your information on file.”

Potter turned a mulish look onto his feet and muttered something cutting under his breath. Phil was kind enough to ignore him.

“Never mind that,” he said. “Since you’re here I can fill you in. In the next week or so we’ll be traveling to DC to meet a member of the US magical community.”

Potter’s expression went blank, all tension easing from him in a single terrible instant. It was not that he had relaxed, Phil observed curiously. If anything, Potter seemed even more on edge. It was a stillness that Phil had seen in large cats — stationary, watchful, and ready. 

“Okay,” he said. “Why do you want me there? I showed you. I can’t really use it anymore.”

“You’re the closest thing we have to a magic user, and from what you’ve told us, it’s likely that you’ll be recognized. That could prove useful.”

Potter shrugged. “Fine.” He stood up. “Is that all?”

Phil tilted his head to the side, carefully setting aside his confusion. “For now. I’ll contact you for a full brief closer to mission start.”

Potter moved toward the door, not walking quickly but with purpose. Phil shook his head and called him back. Potter turned, an impatient frown poking its way through his stoney blankness. Phil offered him the packet. Potter didn’t snatch it out of his hand, but it was a near thing.

***

Jack was not panicking, but it was certainly a near thing. There were few things that perturbed him more than running late. There was something harrying about it. It was testament to being unprepared and it was a sign of disrespect, even if it was an involuntary one. All this was circling his thoughts as he rushed past the startled secretary and pushed the Chief’s door open, barely stopping himself from falling on his face.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry.”

Chief Shift frowned up at him, and then glanced over at the small clock perched on the edge of his desk.

“Oh,” he said. “You must be Finder Jack Stone. My 2 o’ clock?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry for being late. There was a problem with the New York portal. I should have left earlier.”

Chief Shift’s frown deepened. “It’s fine. Sit down.”

Jack gathered his bag into his lap and perched on the edge of one of the armchairs arranged opposite the Chief’s large wooden desk. Chief Shift pushed aside a stack of papers to make room for his hands, which he steepled and pressed against his mouth. He was still frowning, and Jack tried not to let it bother him too much. He resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his forehead, but had to give in when it began dripping into his eyes. Finally Shift turned away.

“Relax, Finder Stone. It happens to the best of us.”

He began searching his desk, and unearthed a leather binder. He passed it over, and as soon as it was in Jack’s hands he untied the cord and dove in.

“This is all the information we have on Harry Potter,” Shift said.

“There’s barely any information here, sir,” Jack said.

Shift nodded. “We lost track of him, but he’s popped back up. Before we were only interested insofar as the England’s Dark Lord’s interest in him. They were both England’s problem.”

“Why the sudden interest, sir? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Shift pressed his clenched fists against his mouth again. He looked tired, Jack thought, and the observation made him frown. Shift was the youngest head of the Central Magical Defense Agency in United States history, barely into his thirties. His dark skin was tinted just a bit gray, and the rough beginnings of a beard was growing in along his jaw and chin. Jack had only worked for his office for a few months, but he knew how many hours the Minister put in. Usually it didn’t faze him, but now he looked tired, and more than a little harried.

“Do you want me to get you something? Coffee?” he found himself offering.

It only made Shift frown harder. “No,” he said. “But thank you for offering.” He pointed at the binder. “I need you to compile as much information as you can about Harry Potter. Conduct interviews, write letters, no stone unturned.”

Jack momentarily mourned the loss of England’s Ministry. It had been flawed, but it had at least been something. When it’s dissolvement had hit the news, the community’s reaction had been strong. The public had pushed for offering the British wizards aid. When the full story had broke, any good will had quickly shriveled up and away. It was generally accepted that the British Ministry had gotten what it deserved. Jack didn’t feel strongly enough to have an opinion either way, but he wished there was a centralized source of information at least.

He sighed as he realized why he’d been given this assignment, as well as the fact that Chief Shift had skillfully not answered his question. “All right. When do I leave?”

“There’s a portkey waiting for you on the bottom floor. It’ll take you to the embassy in London. They’ll set you up with anything you need.”

“How long do I have, sir?”

“A week. Ten days on the outside,” Chief Shift said and at least managed to look slightly apologetic.

Jack shrugged. He’d completed more in less time. “That’s fine, sir.”

Shift smiled at him. “Good. Your partner is probably already waiting for you.” He glanced at his desk clock. “You’d better hurry.”

Jack had been halfway out of his chair when the Minister had spoken. Now he paused and sat back down, sure that he was glaring unpolitely but not caring enough to do anything about it.

“Partner?”

“You didn’t think we would send you out on your own did you?” Shift shook his head. “An auror has been assigned to accompany you. She’s very good.”

“Thank you sir, but I really am fine on my own.”

For the first time Chief Shift appeared truly annoyed, and Jack knew that he should have kept his mouth shut. “It’s not an option, Finder.” He looked pointedly at his desk clock. “You’re going to be late.”

Recognizing the dismissal for what it was, Jack picked up his bag and got to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

Chief Shift offered him a nod and returned to his work. And that was that. Jack signed and did his best not to shuffle out of the office. Shift’s secretary eyed him warily for a moment before turning back to her stack of papers.

Jack took his time on the trip back to the central portal room, mostly out of spite. His excitement had been heavily tempered by the sudden addition of a minder. He was more than capable of looking after himself. He was a full member of CeMDA — he’d passed all the qualifying tests. His specialty was in intelligence gathering, but that didn’t mean that his spellwork was lacking. He was frowning by the time he exited the elevator into the portal room.

Even after years — first in training and then as a full agent — the central portal room took his breath away. It was a true feat of magic. The Bureau was relatively new, only a handful of centuries old. It had grown with the Mundane government, becoming larger and more organized as more European wizards crossed the Atlantic. As their numbers had grown and distributed itself across the country, it had become clear that they needed a better way to centralize and police their people.

The central portal room wasn’t truly a portal. Instead it existed in wizard’s space, and was connected to the main Bureau offices in LA, Chicago, New York, and DC. The transfer was seamless, and felt just like passing from one room to another. Forget flash, subtler was better. As soon as the elevator passed into the portal room its front wall became transparent. His first time Jack had gaped at the scope of it. It existed in wizarding space, which could take any form the castor wanted. The portal room was twice as tall as it was wide and diamond shaped with four walls — one for each of the four cities. A panoramic view of the skyline decorated each wall. The first few times it was overwhelming. Now Jack barely spared it any attention.   

Usually using the portal room lifted his spirits. Today his black mood held fast. The sight of the darkly dressed woman waiting at the base of the elevator only made his frown deeper. She was dressed in the standard auror uniform. A dark blue single breasted jacket, with dark gray piping around the buttons, collar and cuffs that was just pretentious enough that Jack had only ever worn his when he’d been sworn in. He took a bracing breath when the elevator doors opened.

“You’re late,” she said, and Jack knew immediately that this partnership was going to suck.

“Hi,” he said, and unenthusiastically offered her his hand. “I’m Jack, L3 Finder.”

“I know,” she said. She took his hand, shook it once and dropped it. “Auror Gale Reyes.”

Her glossy black hair was tied back in a tight severe bun. Her eyes were dark and utterly unimpressed.

Jack smiled tightly at her. “Sorry about the wait. I was meeting with the Chief.”

She sniffed, and managed to look disdainful without the tiniest shift in expression. Jack shifted uncomfortably under her sharp gaze.

“The portkey?”

She lifted the large one-dollar coin. “We have a few minutes.” Then she turned away, examining the New York skyline.

Jack hated silence, but didn’t feel comfortably enough to engage in small talk. Instead he fiddled with his bag, picked at his cuticles, and finally began examining the far off ceiling. The sudden jerk in his lower stomach was as welcome as it was startling.

***

“All right kid.” Clint said. “Come at me.”

Harry eyed him for a long moment, and then struck. He was fast; Clint would give him that. He fought like Natasha, using his opponent’s momentum against them. He was good, well trained, but inexperienced enough to be just a bit too predictable. Clint stepped back, and let Harry’s right hook pass in front of his nose. When Harry dropped to the ground and tried to knock him off his feet, Clint was ready. He lunged forward, but Harry slipped behind him. Lighting fast, he tried to wrap his arm around Clint’s throat, his thighs squeezing hard enough to expel any breath left in Clint’s lungs.

But Clint was ready for him. He’d managed to get his forearm underneath Harry’s. He broke his chokehold and threw himself onto the mats. Harry bent, pressing a hand onto the mat and flipping out of the way. Clint hopped up and smiled at him.

“Your thighs have nothing on Nat’s,” he said.

Harry offered an acceding nod. “Thighs of death.”

“I’m standing right here,” Natasha said from a few feet away. She was frowning at Harry, not in displeasure, but in thought. “Try that last move again, but start with your left foot,” she told Clint.

Clint rolled his shoulders, and slipped his right foot forward. Harry nodded at him, and Clint lunged leading with his left foot as instructed. Harry slipped behind him again, arm coming up to press against his throat.

“Stop.” They both stilled and Natasha came forward, examining the tableau thoughtfully. “Hop down,” she said. “Let me try.”

Harry slipped off and walked the few feet to his bottle of water. He plopped down on the mat and drank, watching with interest.

This was a good idea, though Clint had been a bit resistant when Coulson had suggested it. Clint and Natasha often spared together, and it couldn’t be denied that Harry’s style resembled Natasha’s. She had years of experience on him — so did Clint — but he was extremely well trained for his age. Sparring together was a way to build bonds, to learn to work together. Natasha, perfectionist that she was, used the opportunity to observe her own moves from a different angle. Harry truly was a good stand in for her, close enough in height and build that Clint could toss him around just as easily.

Natasha was a bit faster, but Clint still managed to get his arm in-between hers and his throat.

“Left!” Harry said as Clint threw himself to the ground again.

Natasha was already bending back, twisting and pushing herself up into a one handed round off. And Harry was suddenly there, catching her foot in his cupped hands and launching her into the air. She flipped, landing atop Clint’s shoulders just as he was getting to his feet. Clint brought his right arm up, forearm pressing out against Natasha’s right knee. He bent and spun, attempting to toss her off and bear her to the ground. But something jabbed hard into the back of his left knee, and he went down. Natasha’s legs came around over his head and swept his other leg out from under him. At the same time, Harry’s arm swung around against his sternum. Clint hit the mats with a sharp exhalation, blinking up at the fluorescent lights.

“Not fair,” he said as soon as he got his breath back.

Harry and Natasha were sitting cross-legged on either side of him. Harry was grinning. Natasha looked extremely satisfied.

“Not fair,” he said again, and pushed himself up.

The lights flickered, plunging the bright room into twilight darkness for a moment. Clint stared up at the lights in confusion, when he looked back down his water bottle was sitting next to his hand, and Harry was blinking the glow from his eyes.

Clint sucked in a breath, but Natasha was already speaking.

“You’re stronger than you look,” she said. “That launch was perfect.”

Harry tilted his head to the side. “That last twist…” He shook his head. “That was pretty great.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, and rubbed his chest and flexed his right leg pointedly. “Great.”

Natasha’s lips pressed together, her eyebrows dancing just a little bit in suppressed laughter. “Did we hurt you?”

“Yeah right.” Clint fell onto his back and stretched. “So,” he began. “Word around the water cooler is that you’ve showed the labcoats your super secret powers.”

“We have a water cooler?”

Clint turned his head and stared at him. Harry stared back for a long moment, then turned to look at Natasha.

“It’s your choice. Coulson plans on showing us the footage any way.”

Harry looked between them for a long moment. Then he sighed. “Someone get the lights.”

Clint was on his feet almost before Harry had finished speaking. He jogged over to the light switch and flipped it, throwing the room into darkness. The emergency lights prevented absolute darkness, and Clint night vision quickly adjusted. Harry and Natasha were both on their feet, and the kid’s eyes were glowing.

“That’s pretty neat,” Clint said, and walked a few steps to either side, examining his eyes from different angles. “You remind me of a lion I used to know.”

“That can’t be everything,” Natasha said. “What else can you do?”

Harry’s shoulders rose and fell as he took a slow breath. Then inky blackness exploded from his skin. Clint took a startled step back, but Natasha leaned closer. One dark patch actually reached out for her, and Natasha ran her fingers across it.

“How does it work?” she asked.

“They’re like arms,” Harry said, and the tendrils coalesced into one large one.

It wrapped itself around Natasha’s feet. She danced out of the way. It followed her. Harry drew his right arm back, like he was pulling on a leash and the darkness retracted, forming a rough ball in his hand. Natasha poked at it, and it squirmed. She glanced over his shoulder and beckoned Clint to come closer. He wasn’t ashamed to say that he hesitated for a moment. Harry tilted his head, eyebrows raised, and Natasha turned and wrinkled her nose at him. He reached out and touched it. Rubber cement, it reminded him very sharply of rubber cement. His fingers sunk into it, and when he attempted to pull them out he met resistance.

They pulled free and Clint’s nose wrinkled. “Gross.” He looked up with a pleased grin. “Nice accent.”

Harry glowered at him. “Thanks.”

“What else can it do?” Natasha asked.

Harry flexed his hand, and the darkness began to drip through his fingers, defusing into the shadows. “I used to be normal.” His lips twisted. “Relatively normal. Wand, spells, all of that.” He shook the last of the darkness off like it was water. The dull shine from the emergency lights began to fade. “They told me I was lucky that my magic wasn’t completely obliterated.” His voice had gone flat and hard. “It’s become…limited, but useful.”

His glowing eyes flickered, and then disappeared. Clint did not panic, but he did move closer to Natasha. They weren’t quite back-to-back, but close. Clint relaxed into the sensation of her at his back.

“Where are you?"

“Here,” Harry said, and his voice echoed from every shadowed corner.

Natasha muttered something in Russian under her breath. Then, “You’ve been holding back on us,” she said. “Come on then.”

Harry laughed, and his eyes reappeared for a moment, barely a foot away. The next thing Clint knew he was on the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs. A long partnership with Natasha had acclimated him to such things, but the kid was more than five years his junior — that rankled.

Natasha wouldn’t let a little thing like supernatural darkness powers get her down, and was standing in the middle of the room, dancing around tendrils of living darkness as it reached out for her. If Clint squinted he could just make out the blurred lines of Harry’s body, darting in to exchange a few blows before falling back. He kept trying to slip behind her, but somehow she managed to always turn and dance away. Superpowers or no, Natasha eventually managed to wrap her body around his and throw him to the ground. The living darkness retracted with an audible sucking sound, leaving the room dim and Harry easily visible. Clint got to his feet and flipped the lights back on. He snatched up their water bottles and a few hand towels and dropped them onto the mats as he joined them.

Harry was breathing heavily. Nat had barely broken a sweat. They stared at each other a long moment, and then Natasha sighed and climbed off of him.

“It’s not very practical in hand to hand, but I can see how it would be handy if you were trying to stay undetected,” she said. “How long can you maintain it?”

It seemed that they had finally reached the capacity for Harry’s budding trust, because he pressed his lips together and remained silent. Natasha punched him in the shoulder, her expression displeased. She didn’t push. Harry glowered at her and rubbed his bruised shoulder. Clint couldn’t help himself; he punched Harry in the leg.

Harry turned to him, eyes wide. “Why are you hitting me?”

“That’s one. I owe you one more.”

Harry punched him in the arm hard enough to deaden Clint’s hand. Clint kicked him in the shin. Next to them, Natasha began to stretch out her legs, ignoring them as the scuffle turned into a full out wrestling match. For the first time, Clint had the thought that this could totally work. Harry slotted right in.

Eventually Natasha got up and nudged them apart with one of her delicate looking feet.

“Come on, _schenki_. I’m hungry.”

Harry untangled himself from Clint and bounced to his feet. “Pizza,” he declared.

Natasha shrugged and sauntered through the small training room and towards the locker rooms. Harry and Clint trailed behind her, grappling as they went.   

***

The British wizarding community was a cautionary tale, one that had made wizards all over the world take notice. Wizarding Britian had been the center, gaining more and more power. The emergence of a Dark Lord was inconsequential in the scheme of things. Regimes rose and fell all the time. What reminded constant was presence. The British Isles had always been a place of magic — _the_ place of magic.

It was sad, seeing what it had been reduced to and Jack regretted that he would never see it the way it had been.

The Ministry building was still mostly intact, though the people at the embassy had warned them about the mess in their lobby.

“Two years later and they haven’t even started cleaning it up,” their ambassador had said. “I guess they have better things to do.”

They had been provided with a short range, one use, password protected portkey, which deposited them in the lobby next to the remains of a large fountain. It was so damaged that Jack could hardly make out what it might have been. Auror Reyes was either kind or disinterested enough to ignore his gawking.

Across the room, someone cleared their throat. Jack twitched and spun around. Reyes was far more graceful in her surprise, her pale colored wand slipping into her hand as she turned to face the threat.  

A woman was standing on the other side of the atrium. Based on her stance it was likely she had been there when they’d arrived, but she stood so still that she blended seamlessly into the destruction framing her. She might have been pretty once, before the scar. It was a shaming thought, and Jack clenched his teeth around it, but there it was. The scar began just above her right eyebrow and bisected it. Her right eyelid was intact, but the eye itself had turned a dark lurid reddish brown — the color of dried blood. The scar continued down her cheek and jaw and disappeared into her collar.

She smiled, and it was not a kind expression. “Hello,” she said, and sounded so much like one of his teachers at Salem that he alternately straightened his spine and raised his shoulders up to his ears. The smile widened into a grin, and amusement lit in her mismatched eyes. “Hermione Granger.” She offered Jack one of her small hands.

“Finder Jack Stone,” Jack said, and tried not to wince at her grip. “This is Auror Reyes.”

Hermione offered Reyes her hand next. Greetings over, she took a small step back and clasped her hands behind her back.

“What can I do for you?”

“Uh.” Jack cleared his throat and glanced at Reyes who stared at him dispassionately with her shark black eyes. “I thought our embassy sent word about—.”

“Yes,” Granger said. “I want to hear it from you.”

Jack blinked at her, and glanced around the ruined lobby. “Would you like to go somewhere more comfortable?”

Granger sat down on a large piece of rubble behind her, and crossed her legs. Jack stared at her for a moment, before he pulled his wand from his sleeve and conjured a pair of chairs for himself and Reyes.

Like pulling a bandaid Jack said, “I’m here to talk about Harry Potter.”

Granger smiled at him and folded her hands in her lap. “What do you want to know?”

Jack dug through his back for a stack of parchment and his quick notes quill. He cast around for somewhere to place them, and ended up summoning another large piece of rubble to act as a side table. He turned back to Ms. Granger and cleared his throat.

“For our records,” he said. “What is your full name and occupation?”

“Hermione Jean Granger. Senior Under-Secretary to Minister Gloryflower.”

“Thank you for meeting with us Madame Under-Secretary.”

Granger nodded, her stare steady and expectant. Jack cleared his throat, and fiddled with his notebook but didn’t open it. He’d written down all the questions he needed to ask, though that had mainly been a exercise — it wasn’t as if he could forget them.

“When was the last time you had contact with Mr. Potter?”

“The last time I spoke to him was the summer of ’94, just before we were to begin our fifth year at Hogwarts.”

“He would have been fifteen at that time?" 

Granger tipped her head to the side. “Fourteen. It was before his birthday.”

“You didn’t speak to him when he appeared at the Battle of Hogwarts?”

“It was barely a battle,” Granger said. “And no. He was a bit busy assassinating Voldemort.”

Jack leaned forward, not bothering to hide his interest when he was sure that Granger could see it anyway. “Is that what happened? We were under the impression that Voldemort was immortal.”

Granger’s mouth twisted up — too sour to be a smile. “Honestly,” she said. “The things that people will say. He’s dead, so he was obviously not immortal.”

Jack frowned. “How did Mr. Potter kill him?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

Jack sighed. “Okay. Mr. Potter disappeared the summer of 1994 and wasn’t seen again until the Battle of Hogwarts three years later. Where was he?”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you were friends?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her expression and baring didn’t shift overmuch, but a coolness spread between them. It turned the corners of her mouth down and straightened her shoulders. He had walked into this meeting knowing that she was a dangerous woman. Her exploits during Lord Voldemort’s rebellion were very well documented, despite being underage at the time. She had outdueled the Lestrange brothers, killing one and maiming the other. At the beginning of the interview she had been formidable, intimidating yet personable. Now the only things keeping him safe were Granger’s self-restraint and Reyes’ reflexes.

“We were,” she said, and amazingly her voice was unaffected. She paused meaningfully, mismatched eyes cold and penetrating. “We still are.”

Jack swallowed, and wiped his suddenly moist hands on his pants. “You’ve seen him since?”

Granger’s eyes narrowed. “Does CeMDA have a height requirement?”

“Uh…” Jack glanced at Reyes who stared back unhelpfully. “Yes?”

“Is it a higher number than their IQ requirement?”

Reyes snorted, which was a relief because Jack had been mostly convinced that she was mute. Jack rubbed a hand over his hot face and sighed.

“I’m sorry if I offended you.”

Granger didn’t reply beyond refolding her hands on her lap. If sitting on a piece of rough stone was uncomfortable she gave no indication of it. Jack cleared his throat.

“Uh. If you don’t know where Mr. Potter was those three years, do you know who does?”

“I assume Harry would know.”

Jack violently stamped down his annoyance. “Yes, but is there anyone else?”

Granger resettled herself and crossed her arms. “Why?” she asked.

“What?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“CeMDA is following up—.”

“No,” Hermione said. She leaned forward, expression sharp with interest. “Why now? What does the American Ministry want with Harry?”

Jack swallowed. “I’m just here to interview you, Madame Granger.”

Granger looked between the two of them for a long moment. She pressed her lips together and exhaled hard through her nose. Finally she nodded to herself.

“To my knowledge, three men besides Harry knew where he disappeared to and how he defeated Voldemort. Two of them are dead.” She stood up, straightening her jacket, and smoothing down her skirt. “You need to find Sirius Black.”

Jack got to his feet as well. “The murderer?”

Granger smiled ruefully. “ _Alleged_ murderer.”

“Any idea where we can find him?”

“No.” She offered Jack her hand. “When you speak to Harry, tell him I’d welcome a visit. The lift is still operational. I’m sure you can see yourselves out.” She shook Reyes’ hand as well, turned and disappeared around the corner without another word.

Jack blinked, dazed by the experience. “Wow.” He turned to Reyes, his eyebrows high.

She looked back, her dark eyes just a bit wide. “She’s four years younger than me,” she said.

Jack glanced after Granger, and suddenly found himself very grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos everyone! They're very encouraging!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint has practice dealing with this stuff, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. There is a mission. Jack finds that you don't always get what you want.

 

Natasha was up reading when her comm activated, something that she was thankful for.

“I’m here.”

The irritation in Coulson’s voice came through easily. “Main briefing room. Five minutes. Fetch Barton.” He disconnected before Natasha could respond.

Natasha sighed, setting her book aside and rolling out of bed. She pulled on her clothes and took the time to smooth back her hair. Clint apparently had been asleep, and was still struggling into his shirt when Natasha walked into his room.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

Natasha shrugged, waiting as he sat down on the edge of his bed to stuff his feet into his shoes. He glanced up at her, gaze sharpening.

“Bull. Tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything,” Natasha said. “I was in my room when Coulson contacted me.”

Clint got to his feet. “Where’s Harry?” Natasha’s eyebrows rose. It took Clint a moment, but she watched his brow furrow in realization. “It could be anything,” he said.

Natasha hummed, her tone uncommitted.

“If he was going to try something, he would have done it before now. It’s been weeks.”

Natasha shrugged again, and led the way out of the room. The debriefing rooms were on the upper levels, and they met no one in the halls or elevators as they made their way there. It had taken more than five minutes, and they were greeted with Coulson’s frown when they entered the room.

There was already someone sitting at the table, and Natasha wrinkled her nose. The woman turned, long blonde hair still tangled from sleep, and waved. “Hey guys.” She raised a hand to her mouth to smother a yawn.

Natasha nodded and took the seat next to hers. Clint hesitated, glancing between everyone in the room. “What’s Bobbi doing here?”

Natasha reached over and tugged Clint into a seat. Coulson watched them silently from the head of the room. He was clearly waiting for someone. Coulson possessed a natural pokerface, one so effective that Natasha frequently had trouble reading him. It had caused problems early on, but time and familiarity had tempered her aversion. There was nothing to be learned from his expression, and he wouldn’t reveal anything until the Director showed up. Natasha kicked her feet up onto the table and began picking at her nails. Next to her, Clint yawned and lowered his head onto his folded arms.

“Should we be worried, sir?” Morse asked. “What’s going on?”

“We’re waiting for the Director and Agent Potter,” Coulson said.

Morse shifted, probably uncomfortable with Coulson succinctness, and Natasha’s nose wrinkled. She had had little opportunity to work with Bobbi Morse, though they had entered SHIELD around the same time. They had trained together a few times, but after Morse’s fourth trip to the infirmary Coulson had put a stop to it. Rumor was that Morse had improved since then. Newly interested and equally bored, Natasha turned her head and examined her. Her attention had Morse shifting again. Natasha stared for a while, watching Morse grow more and more antsy as she waited for Natasha to speak. Finally Clint reached out and poked Natasha where her twelfth rib used to be. It didn’t hurt, but a familiar prickling sensation shot down her spine and deadened her fingertips. She turned to stare at him, and he stared back, lips downturned just enough to indicate his disapproval.

She sighed and shifted out of the way, flexing her tingling fingers. They didn’t have to wait long before the door slid open.

Harry walked in, coffee mug in hand, glasses on, and hair wilder than ever. He, like Clint and Morse, had obviously been sleeping when Coulson contacted them. He took a moment to glower at each of them, saving the majority of his ire for Coulson. He sat down on Clint’s other side, and wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. Clint reached out blindly and gave his shoulder a little pat.

Morse was leaning forward in her seat to better examine Harry’s profile. She reached past Natasha and over Clint to offer Harry her hand.

“Bobbi Morse. You must be Harry Potter?”

Harry ignored her, sniffed, and sipped at his coffee. Morse took her hand back, brow furrowed and nose wrinkled in offense.

“Don’t mind him,” Clint said without lifting his head. “He’s a dick until his third cup.”

Harry yawned, and rested his chin into an upturned palm. His next sip was more of a gulp, his eyes closed but his motions unhesitant.

“A bit young for a caffeine addiction, isn’t he?”

Morse had leaned back in her chair, so her view of Harry was impeded by Natasha. She couldn’t see Harry’s eyes open, or his sudden frown. At the front of the room, Coulson began to rub the bridge of his nose. 

“Doctor Barbara ‘Bobbi’ Morse,” Harry said around a yawn. “Codename Mockingbird. Born in San Diego, California to Susan and Richard Morse, on March 29th, 1973. How’s your brother Ben doing, Agent? Do you think he’ll stay on the wagon this time?” 

Morse went white and the room went silent. “What the fuck?” Her gaze bounced to each of them in turn, equally shocked and offended. “How the hell do you—? What the actual fuck?” 

“Eloquent,” Harry said, tone and expression unbothered. 

Like a whip cracking, Coulson’s voice cut through the cresting tension. “Enough, Potter.”

“I could have babysat you in high school, brat!” 

“That is _enough_ , Agent Morse.”

There were many things that Coulson was good at. Somehow managing to diffuse most volatile situations while leaving both aggressive parties feeling utterly inconsequential was one of them. Natasha basked in Morse’s discomfort, while Clint shook his head.

“Seriously,” he said to the tabletop. “Now there are two of you.” 

They fell back into silence. When the Director arrived a few minutes later, he examined them each in turn before looking to Coulson.

“No one’s dead or bloodied.”

“It was a close thing, sir.”

“Where’s Hill?" 

“Indisposed, but she’s been briefed.”

“Good.” Fury turned to them, resting his hands on the head of the long table. “A situation has developed.”

As he spoke, Coulson dimmed the lights and a topographical map was displayed on the far wall. “We’ve received intel that there’s going to be a major arms deal in Amazonas, Brazil.” The image changed to a blurred picture of a man in the passenger seat of a 4x4, surrounded by jungle. “This is Luiz Vitor. You’re all familiar with his file. Deals in major arms. We think that he might be connected to HYDRA.”

Harry sighed loudly into his coffee.

“Something to say, Agent Potter?” 

Harry muttered something unintelligible.

“I’m sorry,” Fury said. “None of us heard you.”

Harry frowned up at him. “Fine,” he said. “I have a question. What is SHIELD’s obsession with HYDRA, really? It’s been around in some form or other _forever._ ”

“By forever, do you mean the 1940’s?” Morse asked, 

Harry opened and closed his eyes, too slow to be a blink. He spoke without looking at her. “Try 5th through 4th centuries BC,” he said. “Or didn’t you learn that in high school?”

“Seriously, what the hell is this kid doing here? Someone go find him a teething ring so the adults can continue their conversation.”

Harry was still for a moment but the subtle tensing of his shoulders gave him away. Before he was even an inch out of his seat, Clint’s hand was shoving him back down into the chair. An instant later, Clint was leaning into Harry’s face, strong fingers digging into Harry’s shoulder. The way he stared into Harry’s eyes was very familiar, and Natasha watched, fascinated by the way this appeared from the outside. It didn’t happen very often anymore, but she could still remember him forcibly staring into her eyes, prompting her to calm herself before she resorted to violence. Harry’s eyes were greener than Clint’s, Natasha noted. Greener than hers as well. Even so, there was something about Clint that always calmed her down. It seemed to be working on Harry as well. 

Clint raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to the side. Harry reached up, rubbed a hand over his mouth, and nodded.

“You’re the sassiest,” Clint said. The corners of his mouth turned up into an almost smile. He held Harry for another moment before releasing him. He turned to Morse, and stabbed a finger at her face. “Leave off, Bobbi.”

Morse’s eyes widened, her expression turning open and entreating. “Clint, come on.”

Clint’s eyes jumped to Natasha for a moment. When his gaze returned to Morse it had hardened. “No. You know better.”

Morse looked to Natasha as well, and Natasha turned to stare at her. After a moment Morse’s gaze fell from hers. 

“You all done angsting?” Fury asked.

“Jury’s out, sir, but best move on anyway.”

“Sir? If I may?” Fury glanced over at Coulson and waved at him to continue. “Agent Potter is correct,” he said and Morse’s mouth tightened. “HYDRA’s origins do reach as far back as the greek classical period. The incarnation that we are currently dealing with, first popped up in the 40’s during WWII.”

“Captain America took care of that didn’t he? Didn’t he _die_ eliminating that threat?”

“‘Cut off one head, two more will grow in its place,’” Coulson quoted. “We have circumstantial evidence that HYDRA as been involved in every major military conflict in the last fifty years.” 

“So they’re a threat, one that we’re supremely positioned to combat,” Fury said. “Can we move on now? We want Vitor. You four will go in ahead of a SHIELD strike team. Your target is Vitor. As soon as he’s secure the strike team will mop up behind you.”

“Messy,” Morse said.

“And that’s the point,” Coulson said. Fury nodded at him, and he continued. “Vitor might be a small fish, but he’s good at going to ground. We’ve received intel that he’ll be in Brazil just long enough to make the sell. In forty-eight hours he’ll be in the wind.”

“Dress for wet heat,” Fury said. “Wheels up in an hour.”

 

***

 

“You’re still awake.”

Jack almost flinched out of his chair. One of his flailing hands caught on the handle of his coffee mug, knocking it from the edge of the table. Reyes reached out, fingers splayed. The mug hung in mid air, frozen. With her other hand Reyes plucked it up and sat it back on the table top. Jack blinked, rubbing one of his eyes with ink stained fingers.

“Uh yeah. Wow thanks. That would have been a mess.” 

“It’s 3 o’clock in the morning. Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Jack turned, already motioning at the stacks of old newspapers, ready to explain what he was doing. The words frizzled out as he finally took in Reyes - Gale - who had exchanged her CeMDA uniform for her pajamas.

Jack hated the traditional CeMDA robes - he had never been able to shake the feeling that he was wearing a dress, no doubt the result of growing up in mundane Chicago and having a father born of a mundane family. The field uniform was better. It was a long darkly colored double breasted trench coat. Most male agents wore slacks underneath. Gale wore riding pants with long dangerous looking heeled boots. 

He had taken note of it. He’d admired her figure when he was sure that she wouldn’t catch him doing so, but that was all. Her coolness quashed any inclination he’d might have had to engage her in conversation outside of the mission. In her uniform she looked untouchable, cold and dangerous. Such sharpness was unlikely to be an accident.

Dressed for bed, standing in the small room that the embassy had put aside for his office, the carefully maintained distance between them seemed utterly bridgeable. Her hair, typically pulled back into a tight bun, had been released to brush against her shoulders. It wasn’t completely straight either. She had bathed recently - her thick hair was still damp and curling loosely. 

She was wearing sweatpants that were too large for her. The tops of her feet were lost in them. Her arms and shoulders were bare. She looked…

Jack blinked, and swallowed. “I was doing reading. Doing research, I mean. Trying to track down Black.” He turned from her, reaching absently for his coffee. “There’s a lot of information here, a lot of it is conflicting.”

“You’re meeting with the people at Hogwarts in the morning.”

Her implication was clear and Jack turned in his seat, squinting through the headache pulsing in his temples. “Look, it’s not that simple.” He slapped a hand down on stack of parchment, releasing a cloud of dust. “I know his official records. Every mission. Every little thing that anyone in the Ministry or media ever wrote about him. But it doesn’t make sense.” 

Reyes sat in the only other chair in the room, leaned back, legs crossed and arms folded. The unsteady light from the gas lamp on the desk caught her eyes, and for the first time Jack saw that they weren’t black, but brown. He blinked, and looked away. 

She sighed. “This can’t be so difficult,” she said. “Even I’ve heard of this guy. He betrayed his friends to Voldemort, murdered 10 innocent mundanes, and thirteen years later was the only man to escape from Azkaban Prison unassisted. He died fighting for Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, his magic sucked from him with the rest of the Death Eaters.” Reyes tilted her head to the side. “Done.” 

Jack took a slow breath, any attraction he had for her disappearing in a single annoyed instant. “Okay. Number one, it was thirteen mundanes not ten, and they call them muggles here. Number two, he was sent to prison without any trial or hearing of any kind, so I’m not entirely convinced of his guilt. Number three, there are eyewitness accounts of Sirius Black fighting _against_ Voldemort and his followers.”

He picked up a thick binder of old newspaper clippings and shook it in her direction. “And here. News reports, all conflicting, written shortly Voldemort returned summer of ’94. Some say that he never betrayed the Potters, that it was their other friend, Pettigrew. Others written just after Voldemort’s first death say the opposite, that Pettigrew died trying to capture Black after the Potters’ deaths. Now why would Pettigrew do that?”

Jack picked up a thin leather folio and flipped it open, revealing Peter Pettigrew’s official transcript from Hogwarts. His words came quicker now. “This man was unremarkable. His magic was just developed enough to wield a wand. Why on earth would he think he could capture Black by himself? Why would Black betray the Potters in the first place, when all pervious records indicate that he was their friend, James Potter’s best friend? If he did to it - and I really don’t think he did - what was his exit strategy? He had to know that everyone would suspect him. It’s stupid, and the one thing that everyone can agree on is that Sirius Black is not stupid. And of course the only people that know for sure are _dead._ ” 

Jack took a deep breath, and ran a hand over his face. “And why would he escape in the first place? After sitting in jail for thirteen years, something made this man escape and go to Hogwarts.”

Jack turned to his audience, and saw that her eyes were wide and her mouth was slack with surprise. Retroactively, he realized that this was the first time Reyes had spent any time around him when he was working - not interviewing, but truly working. At headquarters his rank afforded him his own office, and most of the other Finders had learned the hard way not in interrupt him. If he had to talk aloud, he usually spoke to himself. He’d forgotten that people were often overwhelmed when he got like this. It seemed even unflappable Reyes wasn’t immune.

He watched her swallow. “Well…” she said. “There’s at least one person who knows for sure." 

Jack shook his head. “The Chief wants all of this figured out before we meet with Potter.” He sighed. “No, the Headmistress had all of them as students. She was there when all this was going on. Maybe she’ll have the answers.”

“I think,” Reyes said, obviously choosing her words carefully. “That it’s not that people don’t have the answers.”

Jack was nodding in agreement before she had finished speaking. “Yes, they’re covering, but it’s bigger than Black.” He paused, rubbing his hand across his mouth. “Bigger than Potter too. Something so big that it collapsed their government, destroyed people’s magic.” He frowned. “Killed people.” 

They sat in silence for a long moment, not looking at each other. 

“Stone,” Reyes began. She sighed. “Jack. Look, we’ve got six days until we have to report back. I don’t think that the Chief expects you to untangle this mess all by yourself.”

Jack shook his head. “If Potter has something to do with what happened here, the Chief is going to want to know. This kid disappeared off the face of the earth for three years. When he came back he was powerful enough to not just kill Voldemort, but assassinate him, destroy him and every single person he was bound to. That kind of power doesn’t just disappear. We shouldn’t have been able to lose track of him, but we did. How? Where did he disappear to after he’d done it?”

Reyes stared at him for a long moment. “Okay,” she said. “But now it’s half past 3 and we still have to be at Hogwarts in a few hours. If you haven’t found the answers in there by now, do you really think you’re going to?”

Jack glanced around at the stacks of parchment. He’d been through them, all of them. Everything he’d read swam through his thoughts, resisting his attempts to piece it together. He nodded, conceding Reyes’ point.

He stood up, and Reyes stood up with him. She planted her small tan hands on her hips, and tilted her head to the side.

“I’m waking you up at 8:30, no matter what.”

Jack yawned, walking over to the door and holding it open for her. “You have no pity.” 

She walked past him, expression utterly unsympathetic. “I’m not here for pity. I’m here to make sure you get to where you need to go.” 

This floor of the embassy was silent, deserted except for them. Their rooms were side by side, only a few paces down the hallway. The lamps were turned down low here, barely enough light to see by. Reyes paused outside her door, her eyes huge and dark.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jack yawned again. “It is the morning.”

“I’ll see you soon then.” 

She walked into her room, closing the door softly behind her. Jack stood there for a moment, and shook his head. 

“Yeah right, Stone,” he said. 

He didn’t doubt that she would barge into his room in four hours to wake him. There was no time to be standing staring at closed doors. 

 

***

 

Four hours later, Reyes had walked into his room and shaken him awake. The lines of her jacket as straight as ever, her edges primly sharpened. For a moment he mourned the loss of her softness, but then she was pushing a cup of coffee into his hand and telling him that their portkey was set to leave in thirty minutes. Then there had been little time to do anything but stumble around for his clothes. 

His grandmother had been born in England, and had attended Hogwarts before meeting his grandfather and moving to the states. Jack had been fascinated, and more than a little jealous, that she had gotten to learn magic in a castle. Not to say that the Salem campus didn’t have it’s luxuries. Washington state was very lovely, even in the winter. But Hogwarts had been a place of fantasy for him for as long as he could remember.

The embassy had told them that it was still a school, in the broadest sense. It had also became the de facto center of magic in the United Kingdom. According to their sources, a city had sprouted up on its grounds, the result of the mass migration that had occurred after the Battle of Hogwarts. Jack supposed that it made sense. Hogwarts was centrodial, the center of magic in Britain the way the Ministry simply could not be. With their world raining down around their ears, it made sense that they would come here — the people that were left to come.

Their portkey had deposited them on the path leading down to the village of Hogsmeade, which was arranged below them, the castle distantly dark against a gray rolling sky. The village still mostly standing, but it had expanded into a sprawling expanse of ramshackle dwellings made with various materials and sizes. It looked distressingly like a refugee camp. 

“No one told us it was this bad,” Reyes said, and she spoke so quietly that her words were almost snatched away by the breeze.

Jack glanced at her face, and saw that she was frowning. She looked at him warningly, daring him to comment. He didn’t.

“Come on,” he said instead. “Looks like rain.”

He began to make his way down the path but Reyes reached out and tugged him back.

“Wait,” she said, and unholstered her wand.

Immediately, Jack did the same. As irksome as it was to do it, he let her take point. He watched her swing her head side to side, dark eyes narrowed and watchful.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

She was quiet for so long that Jack was convinced that she wouldn’t answer. “You don’t feel that?” she asked, speaking over her shoulder. “It felt like…” She left the thought unfinished, her attention arrested by whatever she had sensed.

“Felt like what?” 

She suddenly brandished her wand, releasing a wave of multicolored sparks. Only a few feet down the path they struck an invisible barrier and bounced back. Reyes straightened, her expression tight.

“Wards.”

“Obviously,” Jack said, examining the barrier. He sent a few sparks of his own, watching as the barrier became opaque for an instant before becoming invisible again. “That’s pretty neat.” He held a hand out, only inches away, but couldn’t feel it giving off any energy, but Reyes had. 

Jack glanced at her, and saw that she was doing the same, except the sensation didn’t seem comfortable to her. She pulled her hand back with a soft hiss and shook it out, flexing her fingers. She looked from him, to his hand and back again. She took a single step back, her wand held loosely in her dominate hand.

“Why didn’t the embassy tell us about a barrier?” she asked.

“Don’t know,” Jack said, and walked perpendicular to the path, parallel to the ward ling, throwing sparks as he went to find its edges. It would have been too easy if it only spanned the pathway, but from what he could tell it continued into the surrounding woods as well. “Now what?”

Reyes shrugged. Jack sighed deeply in response, and she raised her eyebrows at him.

Jack pointed his wand at his throat. “ _Sonorus.”_ Reyes rolled her eyes and he grinned at her. He took a breath. “ _Hello? If there’s anyone on the other side, we’re from the American Bureau of Magic, the Central Magical Defense Agency! We have an appointment with the Headmistress that was arranged —._

“That’s quite enough of that, thank you! _Quietus._ ”

The man who stepped through the barrier was rather plain looking at first glance. He was tall, taller than Jack at least, though that wasn’t much of an achievement. His broad shoulders were rounded forward and he was slouching. Despite his poor posture, there was something in his face that reminded him of Madame Granger. It was enough to make Jack take a single step back so he was standing in line with Reyes, and tighten his grip on his wand.

“Hi,” he said. “My name is Finder Jack Stone and I’m with the —.”

“— the American Bureau of Magic, specifically the Central Magical Defense Agency.” The man shook his head. “I heard you. We all heard you. I’m sure that there are people in the next village over that heard you.” He stuck his hand out. “Neville Longbottom. We’ve been expecting you." 

“If you were expecting us, why put a ward up?” Reyes asked.

Longbottom stuck his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans and managed to slouch even further. “The ward is permeant. It helps keep the magic in. Do you have family from here?” he asked, his head abruptly swinging in Jack’s direction.

“Uh, yeah. My grandmother went to Hogwarts.”

Longbottom nodded. “That explains it. Come on. The Headmistress is expecting you.”

He walked back through where Jack figured the ward began and disappeared. Jack took a slow breath and followed him. There was no sense of walking through anything, and when Jack glanced back, the path looked exactly the same, Reyes looking uncertain a few feet away. The first buildings of the village loomed almost directly in front of them. On the other side the village looked much farther away, obviously the affect of a glamour built into the ward. Reyes stepped through the barrier, her face pinched. 

“It’s because you weren’t born here,” Longbottom said. “The land will get used to you if you stick around long enough.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Jack asked. “What happened here?”

“The Headmistress will explain everything.” He glanced down at his watch. “Come on.”

He began to lead them through the maze of buildings. They passed out of Hogmeade and into the maze of wizard tents that they had seen from the path. It was not so bad up close, though that might be due to low expectations. What appeared like chaos from far away, was anything but. The tents were arranged in a staggered grid, marked out by stone paths winding through them. As they walked, a group of children ran underfoot. One of them, a little girl, latched onto Longbottom’s hand. Instead of slowing, he raised his arm, lifting the girl off her feet.

“Patty,” he said, his expression very serious. “Why aren’t you and the others in class?” 

Patty was giggling, swinging her feet in the air. Longbottom showed no signs of strain as he carried her, in fact his pace had barely slowed. Jack glanced at Reyes, who quickly rearranged her face to the typical impassiveness. It didn’t matter. Jack had seen the reluctant appreciation for his inadvertent show of strength. He raised his eyebrows at her and she scowled in return. 

“We’re on break,” Patty said. 

“You just had a break.”

“It’s the same break,” Patty said, and swung her legs again.  

Longbottom finally smiled. He swung his arm, and the little girl squealed as she flew through the air. She was running the moment she hit the ground.

“Go back to class!” Longbottom shouted after her. She waved over her shoulder and ducked between two tents further up the path. At once there was the sound of multiple children laughing, and their receding footsteps as they passed out of hearing. “Well I did my bit,” Longbottom said, shaking his head.

“They seem a little young for Hogwarts,” Jack said.

Longbottom glanced at him over his shoulder, considering him for a long moment. Then finally, “They’re not students, not technically. They came with the families who migrated here. Some of the parents think it more efficient to go over the pre-Hogwarts schooling in groups. It wasn’t unheard of before, and its even more convenient now.”

“We’d heard that things were bad, but we didn’t know that so many people had lost their homes.”

Longbottom sighed. “A lot of the old estates were stripped of their magic. Hogwarts is one of the last places left.”

Jack glanced at Reyes who’s frown of confusion reflected his own. “What do you mean by that?”

Longbottom shook his head. “I’m not the person to try to explain it. The Headmistress can answer all your question better than I ever could.”

They walked in silence, Longbottom greeting a few people as they made their way up to the castle doors. Jack was fine with that, attention spent trying to imagine the grounds as they were. The entrance hall was huge, but not empty. People were sitting at desks, working. Others were standing in groups, talking. In the center of it all was Madame Granger, a stack of paper resting on one hip, as she leaned over reading something over someone’s shoulder. Behind her, four other wizards were waiting their turn for her attention. Jack had slowed, turning in a slow circle as he attempted to take everything in. 

“The Ministry building is intact,” Longbottom said. “But most people can’t stand to stay in there for long. The magic is fouled there, more than anywhere else.”

“What’s she doing?” Jack asked.

“Hermione?” Longbottom asked. “Well, we lost a lot during the Fall. Technically she’s an assistant to the Minister, but really, she’s in charge of documenting what’s left, recording information from the oldest records before the magic runs out. Nothing like this has happened before, and no one was ready for it. The Fall was…hard.” He paused for a long moment. “It hit the oldest families the worst. A lot of our records existed in our blood tomes. Genealogies going back to before Merlin organized the magic, inheritances, family trees, laws - it was all stored magically. Self updating. When Voldemort cast his spell he was trying to, among other things, wipe the slate clean.” Longbottom smiled, but it was more a baring of teeth. “We stopped him, and now we’re cleaning up his mess.” He motioned to the large marble staircase. “We’re running late.” 

The journey up to the seventh floor was also made in silence. Jack let Reyes and Longbottom walk ahead of him and took the opportunity to brood, thinking over what Longbottom had said. He did a good deal of gaping as well. The castle felt old, majestic and grounded in a way that Jack had not experienced before. He wasn’t sure, but it also felt just a bit sad. Longbottom stopped next to a rather angry looking gargoyle. He leaned forward and whispered something into one of it’s stone ears. It jumped to the side, and the wall behind it split in two, revealing a spiral staircase. 

“You can take it from here, I think,” Longbottom said.

“Thanks,” Jack said and offered his hand.

Longbottom pumped his arm once and released him. He turned on his heel and left without a backwards look, shoulders still slumped.

Reyes looked at him this time, lips pressed together. “Something awful happened here,” she said, stating the obvious.

Jack sighed. “Yeah.” 

“As far as I know this is the first investigation CeMDA as done since the news reached us. Why didn’t we —?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “But we’re here about Harry Potter.”

“It’s all the same thing.”

“Yep.” Jack took a slow breath. “Let’s go.”

Jack stepped onto the staircase which immediately began to move. He raised his hand to knock on the door at the top, but a voice spoke before he could follow through.

“Enter.”

Jack glanced at Reyes, who looked back at him with raised eyebrows. Jack pushed the door open and entered a large circular room, which large windows. Paintings were hung on the walls, though many of the frames were empty. Jack walked forward and offered his hand to the tall stern woman sitting behind the large desk. 

“Hello Headmistress McGonagall. I’m Finder Jack Stone. This is Auror Gale Reyes. We’re here to —.”

“To interview me about Harry Potter,” McGonagall said. “Ms. Granger has already warned me. She also told me that you were a bit rude, and slightly unintelligent. I’ll tell you right now that I don’t have time for that, young man. I’ve got a school to run. So let’s get to it.” 

Jack blinked, swallowed, and blinked again. “Yes ma’am.” He began digging in his bag, and pulled out his quick notes quill. “May I set this on your desk? Thank you.” He sat down, fiddling with his leather notebook. “Can I have your full name and position, for the record.” 

“Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” She peered at him through her square glasses. “Will that do?" 

“Yes, of course.” Jack dithered for a moment, but then decided that Madame Granger must have learned her particular brand of intimidation at the Headmistress’ knee, and that their tolerance for circumvention was low, if they held any at all. “When was the last time you had contact with Mr. Potter?”

“Directly after the Battle of Hogwarts,” McGonagall said. “I was the last person who spoke to him before he left us.”

“Left? Where did he go?”

“I’m not sure,” McGonagall said, and her expression softened just a little bit. “I did ask. I invited him to come back to school. He would have been welcome here.”

Jack frowned. “Even though he technically wasn’t a student anymore?” 

“Of course,” the Headmistress said. 

“Even though he was a part of what happened to the magic here?”

Headmistress McGonagall visibly bristled, her spine stiffening, any residual gentleness leaking abruptly from her face. This woman had dueled Voldemort twice. She had taken over Hogwarts after Albus Dumbledore’s death, and held it through two weeks of magical siege. She could have easily become the de facto leader of the British Isles. She hadn’t, and sitting across from her now, Jack couldn’t conceive of a reason why she wasn’t.

“The blame for our current situation rests solely on Voldemort,” she said.

Jack took a breath and plunged. “I had heard something very different, Headmistress.”

McGonagall leaned back in her chair. “And what do you suppose to do, if you find that you are right? Will you capture Harry and punish him, even though we as a people have refused to do so?”

Jack swallowed. “No. Of course not. I just want to understand what happened here.” He motioned at Reyes, who had slipped into her typical silence. “We both do. Or superiors do too.”

McGonagall was silent for a long moment, her gaze penetrating. “It is not my story to tell.”

Jack sighed. “Then who can I speak to?” 

“You need to find Sirius Black.” 

Jack wanted to throw his hands up, but he didn’t. He took a slow breath instead. “Madame Granger suggested the same thing. I mentioned it to our people at the embassy. As far as they know he died in the Battle of Hogwarts.”

“Well he didn’t.” 

Jack waited for her to continue. When it was clear that she had no inclination to go on, he closed his eyes for a moment. He could go home, he thought, but he knew that he wouldn’t. These people, with their hard unforgiving eyes, and their silence - Jack needed to know their secrets. This whole thing was a story that grew more and more  precarious the deeper he went. At the center was Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived-and-disappeared. Sirius Black was the connecting piece, the murderer who was not a murderer. A man who didn’t make sense. These people were Harry Potter’s friends. They were protecting him, protecting both of them.

“I understand,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows. “Do you?”

“I do. You want to protect them.” Jack leaned forward, resting his hand on the edge of her desk. Her eyebrows went even higher. “We just want to know what happened here.” 

“Yes,” McGonagall said. “We know that. What we don’t know, is why _you_ want to know.”

Jack only hesitated a moment. “We’ve made contact with him. I mean, my superiors have.”

Reyes turned to stare at him, her eyes narrowed. Jack barely noticed. His eyes were on McGonagall, who had leaned forward in her seat, her lips pressed so tightly together that they had turned white.

“You already have him. He’s in your custody.” 

“No, I don’t think so. All my boss told me was that he was suddenly on our radar.” 

McGonagall was quiet for a long time. Jack waited, all his cards bared to her. “Stone,” she finally said. “I knew a Stone. Ellena Stone. Any relation?”

Jack blinked. “My grandmother.”

“Ravenclaw wasn’t she?” 

“Uh, yeah. Yes, she was.”

“She was a good student.” McGonagall’s face softened. “You don’t feel it, do you? The wrongness?” She turned and addressed Reyes for the first time. “But you do.” She sighed, wrinkles deepening. For the first time since they’d walked into the office, the Headmistress appeared old. “Voldemort did an evil thing to this land in an attempt to gain absolute power. He tore something, shifted it. There are many people who cannot use their magic at all. Spells, centuries old, unraveled. The pureblood estates, built generations ago, have become husks. Many of the less powerful can’t even wield their wands anymore. Many people lost their homes.”

“So they came here,” Reyes said.

McGonagall nodded. “Since he was very small, our society has placed a great deal of responsibility on Harry’s shoulders. I would spare him this.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Are you saying that he doesn’t know what’s going on here?”

McGonagall rolled her eyes. “Of course he knows. Wherever he’s been, I very much doubt that he was living under a rock.”

“He did something,” Reyes said. “When he killed Voldemort something happened.”

McGonagall sighed. “No one could have foreseen this.” 

“We’ll do our best to keep it to ourselves,” Jack said. “Especially if it was an accident, but we need to know, Headmistress.” 

She was quiet for a moment, staring down at her folded hands. She closed her eyes and spoke without looking up. “Very well. If you must have your answers, Sirius can give them to you. Good luck trying to convince him you mean Harry no harm. He’s at the top of the North Tower. 

“He’s here?” Jack asked.

“Well he lives here. He’s out right now, but I’ll let him know that you wish to speak to him.”

Jack glanced at Reyes who was doing a much better job of hiding her surprise. “I was expecting…”

McGonagall smiled, a tiny genuine thing. “Some things are easy. Don’t over think it.”

She stood up, Jack and Reyes standing as well. “I have another appointment in a few minutes.”

“Thank you for all your help.”

“I must admit, I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Harry.”

Jack nodded, not at all offended. “We’re staying at the embassy. We’ll be there until next Friday.”

“I cannot promise that he’ll contact you, but I’ll speak to him.”

Outside her office, Jack ran a hand over his mouth and laughed. “We’re so close,” he said. “Oh my god, I can taste it. Answers, _real_ answers.”

Reyes shook her head. “You’re getting your hopes up.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Yeah I am. I should contact the Chief. Maybe ask for an extension.”

He turned away, unhesitatingly beginning to make his way back to the entrance hall. Reyes fell into step at his side. She did a poor job of hiding her own smile, but Jack wasn’t nearly foolish enough to point it out.

 

***

 

New York to Brazil was a long trip. Natasha and Harry did the smart thing, put in earplugs, curled up, and went to sleep almost immediately. This left Clint as the designated lookout, a responsibility that he took very seriously. Before Harry, there had been Clint and Natasha in all their dysfunctional glory. It was true that Natasha’s evolvement with SHIELD had been a great deal more voluntary than Harry’s, though they decision to give her a choice had been Clint’s. Still it had been a long fight for the trust that laid between them. Months of learning each other, learning to trust another person.

Clint had expected the same from Harry, the same long, winding and dangerous road to true partnership. He was careful to maintain certain level of distance between them, but how was he to know that Clint and Natasha had danced this dance before? His defenses were nothing that either of them hadn’t seen and surmounted before. More than that, it was clear that Harry wanted to trust them. Natasha had seen in almost immediately - the kid’s yearning to belong to something. It made Clint wonder how hard he had fought on that roof, how he had been holding back the entire time. It made Clint wonder why the kid was here at all, when it was clear that he could leave any time he wanted. 

Clint turned his head and watched them, both of them. On the hull opposite, Bobbi shifted in her harness. She’d been glowering at him over the dossier that Coulson had put in her hands right after take off. Clint glanced at Harry and Nat, then at Coulson, who was sitting in the co-pilot’s chair. No doubt in his mind that Coulson was listening. 

Clint sighed. “Go ahead, Bobbi.”

Her expression didn’t shift. She kept her eyes down and made a show of flipping a page in the packet. “Hmm?”

“Let’s have it. Get it out of your system.”

Bobbi played dumb for all of two seconds. “What the hell Clint?”

“There we go.”

“What’s the deal with this kid?” At least she was keeping her voice down. “Why do you and Coulson keep picking these guys up? Do you or do you not remember what he had to go through with Romanov?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Romanova, Bobbi. It’s Romanova, because she’s a _lady_. I’ve corrected you like ten times.” 

“Her file says—.”

“Coulson went in and made that correction,” Clint said. “Are you saying that you want me to call you Barbara? I can totally get behind that.” 

“Don’t you dare,” she said. Clint raised his eyebrows, and Bobbi sighed. “Okay fine, whatever.” 

“Do we all have to come to SHIELD like you did?” Clint asked. “Does it really matter that much?” 

“Romanova has a blood saturated resume that’s miles long, but I can admit, she’s good. The kid though, what’s so special about him?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw Coulson’s head turn. If it was shareable then Coulson would have included it in the dossier. Not shareable then.  

Clint shrugged. “Sorry.”

Bobbi shook her head, but didn’t seem too surprised. “Team Coulson,” she said, smiling ruefully.

Clint glanced at what he could see of Coulson’s face, and saw him roll his eyes.

“That’s right,” Clint said. 

Bobbi went back to examining the mission specs, no longer glaring at him every few minutes. Clint pulled out his phone and resumed his rather epic game of snake. A few hours later, Nat opened her eyes and lifted her head.

“Oh thank god,” Clint said, and began to dig around for his earplugs. “My turn.”

“You could have woken me. Or the whelp.”

“I’ve been awake for the last thirty minutes,” Harry said without opening his eyes. “And I resent being called anything but my name.”

“Kiddo,” Clint said. “Short stuff, Contrary Mary, Mr. Surly.” 

Harry opened his eyes and glowered. “I can’t wait till we get back. There’s this new take down sequence I want to try.”

“I’m not your training dummy.” 

“No, you’re _our_ training dummy,” Nat said. “Now take your turn, zaychik.”

Clint stuffed his earplugs in and continued mouthing nicknames. Harry made a very rude hand gesture in return.

“Act your age please,” Coulson called from the cockpit without even turning his head.

Clint settled into his seat, smiling in satisfaction. Next to him Natasha rolled her eyes so hard that it looked like it might have hurt. Clint closed his eyes, and began to doze. A few hours later, Harry was poking him awake.

“Twenty minutes to touch down.” 

Clint yawned, and pulled his earplugs out. Down the bench Natasha was strapping on her badass electro bracelets and Harry was relacing his boots. Bobbi had her goggles on and was fiddling with her batons. Clint tucked his earplugs back into his duffle, leaned back against the hull and closed his eyes. Roughly twenty minutes later, the transport touched down in a small clearing. The back hatch opened and almost immediately sweat began to bead on Clint’s forehead. He eyed Nat, Harry, and Bobbi who were each encased in dark forest cameo, long sleeved body suits. His arms however, were blessedly bare.  

“Shut up,” Natasha said, and her hair was already beginning to frizz.

Coulson followed them as far as the hatch, appearing completely unruffled in his suit and sunglasses. 

“You’ve got twenty-four hours get it done. We’ll touch down and circle the area at the twelve hour mark.” The corners of his lips turned up. “Remember your target is Vitor, not each other.” He glanced meaningfully between Harry and Bobbi. “Good luck.”

He stepped back. The hatch closed, and the transport lifted off the ground and rose. It quickly passed out of even his sight, disappearing behind low laying clouds. Clint turned away and slipped his collapsed bow into the special holster at his hip next to his firearm. His quiver went over his shoulder, along with his broken down sniper rifle and ammo. When he looked up, Bobbi had the map open, and the sat locater hooked into her goggles interface. One thing about Agent Hill, she made sure her field agents had the coolest stuff. 

“Seven clicks northwest,” she said. “We’ve got four hours of darkness left.”

“A night hike through the Amazon jungle. Yay,” Clint said. “I’ll take rear.”

“Harry take point,” Natasha said.

Clint wasn’t looking, but he knew when Harry turned on the eyeshine because Bobbi sucked in a sharp breath. Harry must have been feeling particularly magnanimous; he didn’t mock her for it.

“Let’s move,” Natasha said.

 

***

 

They had made good time through the jungle. Having Harry there to lead them around the worst obstacles helped assuage the inherent misery that the terrain induced. Bobbi signaled for them to stop a few meters away from the fence, huddled in the detritus at the base of a large tree. From there were able to examine the base that they had only seen overhead images of. There was a large central building, though scans had shown that the facility continued underground. There were a few tents out front, a central lookout post, with four more positioned inside a seven foot tall chain link fence. At least they didn’t have to deal with barbed wire. Clint _hated_ barbed wire.

The camp was large, large enough that it was unlikely that Vitor had the resources to build anything like it  on his own. It supported the theory that he was in HYDRA’s pocket.

They rested for a few minutes, hydrating from their long march. They still . They sat around the tactical map of the campy they’d been provided, going over the ingress plan. It was simple and messy, just the way Coulson and the Director wanted.

“Okay, let’s get this done so we can get out of here,” Clint said. “I want a shower.”

Bobbi finished stowing her extra gear and bounced to his side. She was grinning ready to cause some mayhem. Clint smirked in return. 

They parted with Harry and Natasha then, circling around to the front of the facility. Just inside the tree line, Clint unholstered his bow and called up a pair of explosive arrows. He took a deep breath in, and fired on the exhale. The arrows hit the base of the nearest watchtower and Clint grinned to himself. There was absolutely nothing like the first boom.

 

***

 

Harry went first, his eyes shining and the lines of his body heavily blurred. He sensed Natasha peeling off behind him, sprinting to one of the rear watch towers as Harry approached the other. He waited at the base of the fence, body low. As soon as he heard the explosion he was moving. He felt the push as his magic oozed out of his exposed skin, covering his face and his bare hands and then enveloping the rest of his body. He sighed, feeling huge and free for a long hanging moment. He fought it back, and reached for focus. His body was real, the darkness was helpful but dangerous. He was a person, and he had a mission.

Clarity came, if haltingly. He scaled the fence, barely pausing at the drop on the other side. He began to climb the tower, pulling himself up onto the platform behind two soldiers stationed there. They were visibly nervous, watching the chaos Clint and Morse were causing on the other side of the camp. They weren’t expecting anyone to come up behind them. Harry stuck his knife in one man’s back and twisted. His magic held the other one by the throat, crushing his larynx in one twisted. A few meters away, Natasha was standing up, two bodies at her feet. Harry swung down, dropping from beam to beam. Seconds later his feet were touching the ground. He eased into the shadow of one of the tents. A few moments later Natasha joined him. He touched his fingertips to hers, and his magic rushed from his body to hers. She was easily visible to him, but to anyone else she would be invisible in low light.

She shuddered for a moment, adjusting to the feeling of magic on her skin. They had practiced this, and she had taken to it far better than Clint had. Within moments she was signaling her readiness, and led the way forward. They moved from shadow to shadow, ducking around men rushing to deal with Clint and Morse. The main doors were open, and Natasha glanced over and rolled her eyes in exasperation. They ducked inside, the bright overhead lights rendering Harry’s ability useless. He touched Natasha, drawing his magic back.

They didn’t have very reliable scans of the inside of the building, so they were mostly on their own. Most of the guards were outside dealing with the more visible threat, but it was too much to hope that Harry and Natasha’s presence had been missed. They moved quickly, searching for a ventilation duct in the ceiling. Harry boosted Natasha up and waited for her to offer her hand through the vent. He backed up a few steps, and then ran at the wall, spinning and pushing off with one foot. He caught her wrist and she pulled him up. Harry caught the edge of the vent cover with a tendril of magic and fastened it.

“I have no idea why Clint enjoys this so much,” he whispered as he squirmed to untangle himself from her.

Natasha laughed. They wiggled onto their bellies, Natasha in front, with Harry covering the rear. The vents were tight, but they moved quickly, finding a down-shaft within minutes. More squirming and Natasha began descending feet first, one hand wrapped around Harry’s ankle. A few minutes later her grip tightened, and then slipped away as she reached the end of the shaft. Now down a level, they began to make their way to the center of the building, and thankfully came across the elevator-shaft. Harry reached out past Natasha and unfastened the vent cover, holding it in space as he wiggled past her. He stuck his head through, drawing magic into eyes as he looked up, then down.

“The car is few feet below us,” he said.

“How much is a few?”

“Four, maybe five. I’ll go first.” 

He reached out and pulled himself free of the shaft, face up and holding onto the lip with his fingertips. He swung in free air for a moment and then dropped. His magic cushioned his fall, made it silent. He turned his gaze up, staring at Natasha as she poked her head out. She saw his eyes, and judged the distance herself. She disappeared for a moment, no doubt turning onto her back and pulling herself free like Harry had. She dropped, and Harry caught her.

“You’re so handy to have around,” she said.

“Thanks,” Harry said, and found the hatch into the elevator car. “What time are we at?”

“Twenty-five minutes.”

“Perfect.”

Harry dropped into the elevator car, Natasha joining him a moment later. He reached out and doused the lights. The sounds of explosions reached them even here. There was no doubt that the target was awake by now. He would wait to the last moment to escape, but he would make the attempt. Instead he would walk straight into their hands. They only had to wait a few minutes, two or three. The elevator doors opened, Vitor talking frantically into a radio. He stilled when he noticed the darkness inside the elevator car, but it was too late. Harry spread his fingers, his magic reaching out and snagging Vitor close. He screamed, but there was no one to hear him - Natasha had already taken down his two bodyguards. 

Harry laughed, and the sound echoed in the enclosed space. Vitor screamed again, and Harry muffled him. There was a certain joy in this, the enemy under his fingertips, eclipsed by his power. It had been so long. The man’s heartbeat echoed in his ear, tapping out his fear in wondrous frantic staccatissimo. He was lost in the music of it, reveling.

The shock was unexpected and twice as unwanted. His magic lashed out, and he scrambled to recapture what he’d been so long without. But it was gone, escaped, and Harry came back to himself with a snarl. Natasha was pressed up against the side of the car, one of his hands tangled in her hair, his other hand encased in his magic and wrapped around her throat. One of her shock bracelets was smoking. 

She was staring up at him, even in the darkness he could see that. He couldn’t think; there were no thoughts. His magic, wild and damaged as it was, fizzled and retreated back. He felt it curling up small and depleted low in his chest. Harry’s back bowed with it, his hand falling from Natasha’s neck. There was a sharp twisting motion and their positions were suddenly reversed. He was only an inch taller than her. In boots she nearly dwarfed him. With her forearm pressing uncomfortably into his adam’s apple, and her unfired shock bracelet digging into his kidney, he felt very, very small. She leaned forward, keeping a steady pressure on his throat. He jerked when her forehead touched his. She stared into his eyes for a long moment. So close there wasn’t much else to look at - Harry stared back. His breathing deepened.

Half a day ago, Clint had done this too. Just like then, he felt his breath lengthening. Rage had fueled him then, now it was panic. Natasha drew it out, her touch a subtle threat and a balm all at once. He sighed, and his shoulders loosened. Natasha knocked her forehead against his and finally drew away.

Her lips twisted into an almost-smile, and she glanced down at their feet. “Look what you’ve done to him.”

Harry looked down as well. Vitor was laying there, drooling into the grating. She reached down and pulled him to his feet. He swayed, his brown face gray with fear, and began babbling in Portuguese. Natasha tazed him. He screamed, and finally passed out. Harry bent and caught the bend of his waist before he could crumble to the ground. He straightened, their target slumped over his shoulder. Natasha eyed him for a long moment, her hand hovering over the communicator in her ear. Harry nodded, and she pressed the button on the side of the elevator, activating her comm at the same time.

“We have the target. There better be a path for us.” 

“Are you kidding?” Clint said at once. “Bobbi and I ran out of people to beat up like five minutes ago. I’ve been blowing up things for fun. Bobbi is making a human daisy chain.” 

The elevator began raising with a series of loud clangs, and Natasha’s eyebrows rose. “I think that statement as connotations that you’re unaware of.”

There was a long pause. “Ew,” Morse said quietly. “This suddenly isn’t fun anymore.”

“I feel like I missed something,” Clint said.

“We’ll explain it on the flight back,” Morse said.

“I assume that this comm chatter is an indiction that you’re ready for extraction?” Coulson said.

They grew quiet at that, and Clint offered an affirmative. “Do you have any idea what they’re talking about ‘Shade? Is this some sort of chick thing?”

The elevator doors opened. Natasha went first, her firearm unholstered. She did a sweep, but the hallway was deserted. It was a straight shot to the front door - much easier going out than coming in. They left the bunker and stepped into the predawn light. 

“I’m not sure I’m the one to explain the facts of life to you, Hawkeye,” Harry said.

The levity did not come easy, but it came. He carefully put aside his discomfort. He knew quite clearly that his position with SHIELD was tenuous. How useful could he be if he could not control himself?

“What do flowers have to do with sex?”

“Chatter,” Coulson said, without heat. “Mop up team ETA in five minutes. They’ll take Vitor off your hands.”

Morse and Clint were lounging near the collapsed central guard tower, which had been reduced to a pile of smoking wood. The prisoners were sitting in a rough circle, their arms woven together behind their backs and their wrists secured with zip ties. Harry tossed Vitor down and cracked his back.

“Any trouble?” Clint asked. 

Harry wandered a few feet away so he wouldn’t have to hear Natasha’s response. This put him closer to the men who had surrendered, and he glanced over at them, more interested in examining Morse’s work than anything else. He didn’t expect to recognize anyone.

It was Brother Eloi. Even behind the rough beard, blood staining half of his face - Harry recognized him. He’d known him only in passing, but they had eaten meals together. Eloi had been there when Harry had received his brand. There was recognition in his gaze, and he dipped his head slightly.

Harry walked back toward the others, and if Natasha had told them what had happened there was no indication of it. She couldn’t say much in front of Morse. It would be later then, after they returned to headquarters. Clint had holstered his bow, but still held his handgun.

He grinned as Harry approached. “First mission where you’re not the target and you get an easy one. Lucky. Ask Widow about her first mission some time.” 

“It was a disaster and it was all his fault,” Natasha said over the sound of the approaching transport.

They turned to watch it swoop low over the trees, it touched down in a large clear spot a few yards away. The engines powered down, and the hatch opened. The strike team hustled past them, a few peeling off to guard the prisoners while others fanned out to search the camp. Natasha and Clint holstered their guns, and Morse slipped her batons into the sheaths on outside of each thigh. Coulson stepped out of the transport next, buttoning his suit jacket.  

“Get onboard. You all look tired.”

“Not going to ask how it went?” Clint asked.

“Sure I will, in great detail. But that’s later.”

It could only be a coincidence that Coulson was looking at Harry when he spoke. Harry scowled at him, and Coulson’s eyebrows shot up, his head tilted to the side. He didn’t ask. Coulson motioned for them to get onboard, and went to speak to the only other man not in full combat gear. The air inside the transport wasn’t as humid, and Harry breathed a bit easier. As soon as he was sitting exhaustion washed over him, and he tipped his head back and groaned. 

Clint collapsed in the seat next to his. Natasha sat down on his other side. Bracketed, Harry relaxed a little. If either one of them noticed, they were either kind enough, or tired enough not to comment.

Harry closed his eyes. He thought of the impending debrief, and what Natasha might say. But that was not where his worry truly rested.

That was hours from now, and a whole continent away.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments! They make my day!
> 
> -Owle


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding. Jack gets answers but they don't last long.

He had not fallen so far into cliché to wake with a gasp. Instead simple disquiet put a frown on his face the moment he realized that he was no longer asleep. He only remembered the ‘before’ in dreams. Before — when right was _always_ right, and wrong was oh-so-obviously wrong. Before — when the world had only been slightly terrible, and things weren’t so horribly dire. Once, he had had friends, friends who supported him, who he would’ve risked his life for. In the beginning, right after he had learned the lesson, he had regretted his choice.  

The Master had ruthlessly beat ‘before’ out of him. It had made him strong, strong enough to do what was needed. Master had recolored the world, replacing the stark blacks and whites with ever-shifting shades of gray.

He was stronger for it; this was fact.

Yet his dreams taunted him with a future that had never come to pass. They showed an ‘after’ where Harry had been left to muddle through alone. In the seconds after waking, Harry allowed himself to wonder what life might have held for him if things had been different.

No point in that, and he dragged himself upright, blankets gathering at his waist. He rubbed a hand over his face. He sat there for a moment, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself to his feet. It was late, and the mess was closed. Lucky for him, one of the first things he’d done when he’d been assigned permanent quarters was to dig up a coffee maker and install it in what SHIELD considered a kitchenette. He leaned his forehead on the upper-counter and closed his eyes, listening to the pot gurgle. As soon as the sounds tapered off, Harry was pouring.

There would be no sleeping after this — he had no interest in his dreams tonight. Instead he stuffed his bare feet into his boots and threw on a T-shirt. Then he ventured out of his room, coffee in hand.

In the beginning, he had wondered what the citizens of New York would think if they discovered SHIELD headquarters right under their noses. Would they feel safer knowing that SHIELD was here to protect them from all the scary things that they didn’t know of? Or would they balk at what existed at their doorstep? Harry was not a betting man, but if he were, he would’ve put his money on the later.

He had never been one of them, not really. He had always been _other,_ his fear present but distant. The Master had removed it from him completely, and he had not known what it was to be truly fearless until then.

He desperately missed it.

SHIELD headquarters was silent this time of night. More importantly, it was empty. The lights on most of habituated levels had been dimmed, creating a muted landscape of deep shadows. Harry took a breath, and released it, feeling content and disquieted at once.

His first clear memories were of darkness. Darkness had meant safety. In the after — after everything had gone so horribly sideways, the Master had stood in the path of Harry’s power, and he’d smiled, utterly unsurprised.

“It suits you,” he’d said.

Harry went to the roof, his still steaming coffee mug cradled in-between his hands. He braced his elbows against the railing and looked out over the city. Times Square was still bright, and the sounds of traffic reached him, even at this height — the city that never sleeps. Even at 2 o’clock in the morning, apparently.

“Can’t sleep?”

Harry’s spine stiffened, and he turned to watch Natasha as she stepped up next to the railing. She was dressed for bed but like him seemed wide awake. In truth this had been on his mind for two days, and he was rather relieved that they were finally getting it out of the way. Natasha crossed her arms and leaned against the railing. She spared a moment to look down, examining the street below the same way he had a few minutes before.

She looked up at him, and her lips tightened in amusement. “Relax,” she said.

Harry had no intention of doing any such thing until he knew what to expect. He allowed his frown to deepen, and Natasha’s eyebrows rose as her amusement grew.

“It’s not a big deal,” she said.

“I could’ve hurt you.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Please.” Harry opened his mouth but before he could speak Natasha was waving his unsaid words away. “Eventually you’ll figure this out on your own,” she said. “But watching you struggle to it is _painful._ ” She leaned closer, but Harry held firm, his eyes narrowing. “Are you ready?”

“Whenever you are, but take your time. I’m sure you’ll get to the point eventually.”

Natasha didn’t even acknowledge that he’d spoken. She leaned further into his space with the full knowledge that made him deeply uncomfortable. She brought her hand up to rest alongside his face. At once his skin began crawling, his magic uncurling languidly deep in his chest.

She leaned even closer, her breath and lips brushing against his cheek. “You’re not that important.”

Understandably, it took a moment for the words to penetrate. By the time Harry reared back in outrage, Natasha was already dancing out of the way, her laugh as unexpectedly bright and girlish as ever. She quickly disappeared from the balcony, bypassing the elevator to throw herself down the stairs instead. Harry leaned over and watched her form get smaller and smaller as she descended the winding staircase. Her laughter echoed, amplified. The decision to follow was instant, and extremely gratifying.

He swung after her, his magic oozing from his skin as soon as he entered the shadowed stairwell. He moved faster, slipping from shadow to shadow with the same ease she slid, jumped and vaulted down the stairs. She came to a stop outside the 30th landing, her breathing slightly elevated. Harry touched down next to her, magic seeping back into his skin.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a horrible person?”

“So many times I’ve lost count,” she said, lips pressed together in her version of a smile.

Harry rolled his eyes but opened the door for her, sure that she had stopped in front of it for a reason. She made her way down the darkened hallway, leading him deeper into the building. This floor was almost identical to the one right below it, where Harry’s quarters where. He could only assume that her bunk was on this floor. She stopped in front a door at the end of the hallway, and paused for a moment before opening it. Harry followed, curiosity mounting. The room was dark, and his magic reacted immediately, still close to the surface from his trip down the stairwell. The room a bit of a mess, discarded clothes carpeting almost every inch of the admittedly smallish space. These were obviously not Natasha’s quarters. Even so, she stepped around the mess with confidence, making her way to the bed. Clint was sprawled on his stomach, one hand resting underneath the pillow, the other hanging down toward the floor. Natasha creped closer, but Harry hung back.

Snake quick, she reached out and wrapped her hand around his wrist where it disappeared under his pillow. Her other hand, she used to deflect his flailing punch.

“Wha’ t’fuck?”

“Good morning,” she said, kicking off her shoes and shoving at his hip to make room on his bed.

Clint turned onto his side, making room for her with a muffled grumble. He looked between them, before settling back down with a soft huff. This didn’t seem to bother Natasha. She reached over him and felt around the overturned crate turned side table, ultimately digging a remote from underneath a half empty bag of chips. She looked up at Harry, frowning.

“Sit down.”

Instead Harry took a single step back, toward the door that still stood slightly ajar. Her eyebrows shot up and her lips curled up into the challenging smirk that he was quickly becoming used to. She was purposefully goading him, and distantly he should know better than to allow her to manipulate him. In the end it was his own curiosity that made him toe off his boots and settle gingerly at the foot of the narrow bed. Natasha watched him the whole time, seemingly unaffected by the near complete darkness of Clint’s room. He pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped an arm around them, watching her back. Finally she turned from him, using the remote to turn on the TV.

“What movie do you have in here?” she asked.

Clint spoke without opening his eyes. “Why don’t you turn on the dvd player and find out for yourself?”

Natasha’s nose wrinkled. “Tron? Really?”

“That movie is the shit,” Clint said.

Harry leaned closer, eyeing the TV screen with interest he didn’t bother to hide. Clint nudged him in the side with one of his covered feet.

“Get ready for the awesome,” he said.

Natasha sighed. “Yes. The _awesome._ ”

“We do not make fun of Tron here. You can either sit and enjoy it or get the fuck out.”

Natasha rolled her eyes but made herself comfortable. Harry did not, could not, because he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the next few minutes he kept his attention divided between the movie, Natasha and Clint. When it became clear that they were both engrossed — even if Clint seemed to be dozing and waking in roughly five minute cycles — Harry let the movie capture all of his attention. It was strange, yet arresting. Soon, Harry found himself relaxing, if only a little bit.

About an hour in, Natasha prodded Clint in the shoulder. “Remember that time in Mexico?”

“Which one?”

“When you got the stitches.”

Clint yawned. “Yeah. That was such a mess. That was the first time we were deployed with Bobbi.”

Harry turned and stared at them, but neither of them were looking at him.

“Remember when I had to be put in confinement?” Natasha asked.

“You were in confinement a lot,” Clint said and even from the other end of the bed, Harry could clearly see him roll his eyes.

“This was the third time,” Natasha said. “I broke that guy’s nose.”

“He totally had it coming,” Clint said.

Harry turned back to the movie, their point painfully obvious and uninteresting. They were good at this, keeping him just unbalanced enough that he often did not know what to expect from them. These past weeks had been full of these moments — inclusion in rituals obviously shared between partners. A part of him, the curious part, wanted to ask outright what the hell they thought they were doing.

Instead he sat, tucking away the little lessons they tried to impart on him, no doubt thinking him young and in need of instruction. Another part of him, the angry part, wanted to rage and show these agents — show SHIELD — exactly what they were dealing with.

The Master had beat patience into him, and Harry would not discard that hard won lesson.

So instead of telling them how transparent they were, Harry took a slow breath and turned his attention back onto the movie, which had grown even stranger while he hadn’t been paying attention. Natasha and Clint continued, idly listing times either or both of them had lost control to someone else’s detriment. 

Clint nudged him with his foot. “You’re a heap of teenaged angst,” he said. “But don’t worry. It’ll probably pass.”

“Is that your way of saying that I’m ‘not that important?’”

Clint turned an incredulous look onto Natasha, who was suddenly staring at the small TV screen with utmost interest.

“Not the way I would phrase it,” Clint said, glancing at Natasha again. He sighed. “But yeah. I mean, none of us are really that important.”

Harry turned, giving Clint all of his attention. Clint stared right back. “No one?” Harry asked.

Clint grinned, quick and gleeful. “No one that I’ve met yet.”

He was wrong of course. The world was rife with inequality — another hard lesson. There were some people with the means to divert civilization from the path of damnation. These people were shaped by their circumstances, gifted with the responsibility to do what was necessary. These people were, unavoidably, important.

Harry pressed his lips together, resolved to keeping his opinion to himself. Clint watched him for a moment before looking away, satisfied. Natasha did not seem fooled by his silence, but let it lie.

A few minutes later Natasha uncurled and changed out the disk — The Fifth Element apparently. Twenty minutes in, Harry’s eyes started drooping closed. At some point Clint had shifted, sitting up and leaving more of the bed free. Harry took advantage and uncurled his legs, resting his head on the wall behind him.

A few hours later he yawned himself half awake just in time to watch the credits end. Clint had gone back to sleep. He was leaning up against the headboard, one leg extended across Natasha’s lap, with the other planted on the floor. Natasha was still sitting in the middle, a worn paperback resting on Clint’s knee. While sleeping Harry had leaned over, his temple resting heavily on Natasha’s shoulder. One of his hands was curled loosely around Clint’s bare ankle. Harry thought about moving, but it was still early.

“What are you doing?” he asked, blinking blearily at Natasha’s book.

That was not what he’d meant to ask, but one of her hands came up to fiddle with the wild tuffs of hair near his ear. Harry closed his eyes.

“I’m on watch,” he thought he heard her say just as he was falling back asleep.

It might have been his imagination, but in that moment it hardly mattered. It was wrong, against everything that he had been taught. He relaxed anyway, and closed his eyes.

***

Waiting was not something that Jack did gracefully. When he was young, his mother had despaired at his fidgeting but his father had understood — Jack had learned the habit from him. When nervous or bored or deep in thought, Jack paced. He clicked pens. He drummed his fingers. At his absolute worst, he cracked his knuckles. Reyes had kicked him out of the embassy around then, and told him to go for a walk before she was forced to do something drastic.

It was a shame that he was not in the mind to enjoy London the way it ought to be enjoyed. It was a beautiful city, weighted where Chicago had always felt just a little bit flighty.

He found a park and sat down to people watch, fiddling absently with the buttons on his jacket. Distantly, Jack registered someone joining him on his bench but continued to watch the people walking by. Just as his fidgeting was beginning to slow the person sitting on the other end of the bench shifted closer. Jack glanced up, and his mouth fell open.

“Don’t shout,” Sirius Black said.

He looked different from both sets of photos Jack had access to — undeniably older than when he’d attended Hogwarts and made his name battling Voldemort, and in far better condition than he’d been in after he’d escaped Azkaban. His hair was almost unfashionably long, but paired with his sharp nose and high cheekbones he managed to pull it off. His eyes were a deep, piercing gray. Instead of quailing under Black’s attention, Jack’s first instinct, he forced his spine straight and his chin up.

Black leaned back and crossed his ankle over his knee. “I heard that you wanted to speak to me.”

“Yeah. Yes we did.” Black tilted his head to the side, his expression utterly unreadable. Jack touched his hip where his bag normally rested. “I don’t have my materials here. The embassy is just —.”

Black made a short dissenting sound and shook his head. “We’ll do this right here, or not at all.”

Jack only hesitated a moment. “Here then.”

Black waved him on.

There was really no need for his list of questions. They appeared in his mind just as he’d written them down. Not for the first time, Jack sent up thanks for what or whoever was responsible for gifting him with his memory. He would have to go back later and transcribe the interview from memory, a tedious and hated task. Jack glanced around at the mundanes, noting for the first time that they gave the bench a wide berth, going out of their way to avoid walking past it.

“You can still use magic,” Jack said.

Black shrugged easily. “I’m one of the lucky ones. But that can’t be what you’re here to ask.”

“I want to know what happened here, and how Harry Potter was involved.”

Black watched him for a long moment. “Why?”

Jack sighed. “Why what?”

“I know you met with Hermione and McGonagall, and they both asked you why you want to know.” Jack opened his mouth but Black held up a silencing hand. “It’s more than just doing your job. You _care._ Is it just curiosity? What is your stake in this?”

Jack closed his mouth without speaking, nonplussed. He _did_ care, at least he was beginning to. Was it the mystery of it all? Perhaps it was the memories of his grandmother, who had been so proud of her country, even after being gone from it for so long. He stared at Black, unsure how to answer.

“I just do,” he finally said. “Something awful happened here. Maybe I just want to make sure it never happens again.”

“And you think that Harry would have something to do with it, if it did?”

Jack knew that he had to tread carefully, and so he took his time. He averted his eyes from Black’s intense gaze, looking around at the trees, at the people walking by with no idea that there was a dying society right at their doorstep.

Jack took a careful breath. “I don’t know Harry Potter, Lord Black,” he said. “But from what I’ve read of him, and the way his friends speak about him, no I don’t think that he would ever do anything like this on purpose.”

Black nodded at him, and relaxed visibly. “We owe Harry a lot.”

“He killed Voldemort.”

Black shook his head. “We made him what he is. Not just Voldemort, not the Death Eaters, all of us did. All Harry’s ever wanted to do is survive.”

Now Black turned his head aside, looking off into space. A moment later, his thoughts made him smile, and for the first time Jack could see why people called him charming. There was no doubt that he was handsome — even years in Azkaban hadn’t managed to take that away forever. His smile transformed his entire face, made him personable.

“He was the happiest baby,” Black said, his smile turning into a grin. “That kid had everyone wrapped around his little finger.” The grin turned sour. “He deserved better than what we did to him.”

Jack paused, allowing Black to blink himself back into the present. “What did you do to him?”

The man from the beginning of the interview returned, hard and ungiving. He turned those sharp eyes onto Jack and narrowed them.

“You say you care,” he said. “I don’t think you’re lying, but I won’t let you hurt him. Do you understand?”

Jack raised his hands and spread his fingers. “No one wants to hurt him.”

“You’re young,” Black said. “Like he used to be, but I don’t think he was ever this naive. Just because _you_ don’t want to hurt him doesn’t mean your bosses won’t. Before I tell you anything else, I want your oath.”

It was on the tip of Jack’s tongue to refuse. It went against most of his training. Technically Black was still a wanted man, and there was no way of knowing what he would bind Jack to do. But he wanted to know. He wanted it so badly.

“An unbreakable vow?” Jack asked, because as much as his curiosity drove him, this was not worth dying for.

“Nothing so drastic,” Black said. “A binding verbal contract.”

Jack hesitated, beginning to pick at his cuticles. “What exactly are your terms?”

Triumph lit in Black’s eyes for a moment before he smothered it. “I give you one interview, right now, where I answer your questions pertaining to Harry’s training and his involvement in Voldemort’s death. In return, you swear on your magic that you will protect Harry’s life and livelihood any way you can, if your direct or indirect actions cause him harm.”

Ah. It had slipped his mind that Black had grown up in a noble house. He would know the best way to word an oath like this. Jack frowned, quickly reviewing the terms.

“Just his training and how he killed Voldemort?” Jack asked. Black nodded, his expression blandly impatient. “I assume, if I want more answers from you, that interview isn’t included in this bargain.”

“That’s right.”

Jack hesitated one last time, and Black’s eyes narrowed. There was something that he was missing but the longer he waited the more tense Black appeared. Finally, for fear that he would lose the opportunity completely Jack nodded.

Black’s grin was sudden and shark-like. Jack knew that he had absolutely missed something. “Aloud please.”

Jack swallowed. “I accept your terms.”

Black held out his hand, and Jack took it. He barely managed to suppress a shudder as he felt magic pass between them. As soon as he could he took his hand back, and gave it a little shake. There was nothing tense about Black now. He smiled freely, and began patting his pockets. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook. He lit one and took a long drag, releasing a cloud of white smoke when he exhaled.

“Start at the beginning please,” Jack said.

Black took another long pull, and then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “All right.” He took a slow breath and ashed his cigarette on the ground. “At the end of Harry’s fourth year, Voldemort came back. He stole some of Harry’s blood for a ritual. Dark, _nasty_ magic.” Black paused and Jack watched him clench his teeth around the filter of his cigarette. “It was Harry’s idea, but he didn’t know what he was asking for really.” He spoke without looking at Jack, brow furrowed. “He’d just been through something terrifying, but he wouldn’t talk about it. In hindsight, I realize that he just wanted to be safe, and he didn’t trust us to do that for him anymore.

“You know about his home life?”

Jack nodded. “He lived with relatives until he received his invitation. He didn’t know he was wizard until then.”

“Lily’s sister,” Black said, his lip curling. “Petunia. She was awful; Lily hated her, and that’s saying something. They treated him like shit.”

Jack felt a bit sick. “They abused him?”

“Verbally at least. Harry just used to say that they didn’t like him. He had no where to go where he could be safe. Hogwarts was supposed to be that for him, and it never was. Getting kidnapped by Voldemort was just the final straw.”

“So?” Jack prompted.

Black took a finally drag of his cigarette and then dropped it, putting it out with his heel. “What do you know about the League of Shadows?”

The way he said it made Jack think that he _should_ recognize the name, but he didn’t. He shrugged, but Black didn’t seem too surprised.

“I hadn’t heard of them either. To be honest, I’m still not clear on everything. They came for Harry just before his fifteenth birthday, and he fell off the grid. It should have been impossible. Dumbledore had him layered in tracking charms. Even if Harry were in an unplottable area, even hidden by Fidelius, there shouldn’t have been anywhere we couldn’t follow him. Almost three years, and we had no idea where he was.” Black shook his head. “But it wasn’t a matter of where.”

Black fell silent, and stared at Jack pointedly. After a long moment Jack realized where Black was leading him. “That’s impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible.”

“There is no spell or ritual that can send someone back in time more than 24 hours. The stress on the body alone…”

“The world is a large place,” Black said. “I don’t know how, but I know that they managed it.”

Jack’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally managed to speak. “Our contract didn’t say anything about you lying.” A second after he spoke, he blanched.

Unbothered, and visibly amused, Black said, “No it didn’t. But it was implied. As hard as it is to believe, it’s the truth.”

“ _How?_ ”

Black shrugged, and reached for another cigarette. “You’ll have to ask Harry.”

“Is there anyone else who might know?”

Black paused, lighter held just in front of his cigarette. “Severus Snape would know, but there’s no way you’re going to get answers out of him unless you resort to some serious dark magic. He got himself offed during the Battle of Hogwarts. Good riddance. I always thought that Dumbledore knew more than he let on, but you know what happened there.”

“Actually, I can’t find any definitive information on how Dumbledore was killed.”

“There isn’t any,” Black said, his expression turning dark. “The Hogwarts houeselves found him in his office one morning looking as if he’d died in his sleep. A day later Voldemort took credit. We never did find out how he managed to sneak that far into Hogwarts and kill Dumbledore without alerting anyone. With wizards that powerful, you’d expect to hear something, but there was no damage to the office at all, and no spell residue on the body.”

Jack shook his head, frustration raising when he realized that like the other interviews he’d conducted, he would leave with more questions than he did answers.

“And Voldemort? How did Harry kill him?”

Black looked up at the sky for a long moment. “Voldemort did an evil thing here, and it’s now as we’re cleaning up that we realize how close he came to destroying all of us. He was a blood supremacist and completely insane. There’s no way of knowing for sure without asking him — and the chances of him telling us are slim even if he weren’t dead — but we think he was trying to draw the magic from the land into himself, so that he could distribute it any way he wanted.”

Black suddenly laughed aloud, and Jack realized that his face must have twisted without his say-so.

“Exactly!” he said. “Voldemort may have been powerful, but there was no way he could have held all that magic on his own, which is why we think he was using his Death Eaters as glorified storage containers.”

Jack shook his head. “Why attack Hogwarts?”

“Why do you think the four founders decided to build a school there? That piece of land is ancient, the cornerstone of magic on the isles. Voldemort needed direct access and it was the last stronghold.”

“How does Potter fit into everything?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard that the Battle of Hogwarts wasn’t much of a battle — only about 100 casualties, and few fatalities, not counting the Death Eaters. Harry ended the Battle early. He appeared out of nowhere and slipped behind enemy lines into the Forbidden Forest and killed Voldemort. His Death Eaters died with him. It was too late to save the magic but it’ll recover. I won’t be surprised if it begins to look a bit different.”

Jack struggled to acclimate to all the new information and settled upon the road of least resistance. “What do you mean by that?”

“There are a whole bunch of people that can explain it better,” Black said. “Basically we’ve been using magic the same way for centuries. It became easy. Now all those pathways and systems are gone. You can’t destroy magic, but it can take new forms.”

Jack stared at him, watching as he almost cheerfully finished his cigarette. “You seem to have a good attitude about all this.”

Black shrugged. “I’ve lived a hard life, mate. I watched the world almost end; you learn to put things in perspective. I also have a great mind healer. It’s amazing what good a little head shrinking will do.” He took a moment to run his fingers through his hair. “Anything else?”

Jack sat back and put a hand over his eyes. “Give me a minute.”

It was too much to try to assimilate here. He needed quiet to sort through all the data and to make the proper connections. Instead he pushed the details to the side, and brought up his list of questions. There were new ones of course, but it seemed like Black had answered those as best he could, and they weren’t covered in their contract.

Eventually he shook his head. Black’s face turned very serious then, and he stabbed a finger at Jack’s nose. “You’re under contract,” he said.

“I remember.”

Black nodded and got to his feet. “Good luck kid.”

Jack stared after him until he turned a corner and disappeared from his sight. He rubbed at his aching temples. His head felt weighted and he wouldn’t be able to sort through it all until he processed it. He pushed himself to his feet and began to make his way back to the embassy. Distantly he realized that he’d finally gotten the answers he’d wanted. He did not feel like celebrating, and there was no sense of accomplishment. Perhaps it was because he still had so much to do.

Would it ever end, or was he doomed to never getting the full story? The idea was too depressing to even contemplate.

***

“Hey, Clint!”

Harry immediately tried to duck through the nearby door, but Clint’s hand wrapped around his arm snake quick. Bobbi jogged over, her feet bare and her hands taped.

“Hey Bobbi,” Clint said. “We’re heading for the shower.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed, and Clint looked between her and Harry thoughtfully.

Harry narrowed his eyes, his expression already souring. It made Clint’s decision an easy one. He shifted his grip on Harry, pressing his hand in the center of the kid’s back in order to nudge him forward.

“But Harry here is good for another session. Aren’t you, kid?”

If looks could kill, Clint would have been dead a few times over. It only made Clint grin at him. “C’mon, Harry. What can it hurt?”

Harry opened his mouth, no doubt to tell Clint and Bobbi where they could stuff it. Bobbi spoke before he could.

“That’s not funny Clint.”

Harry frowned and Clint barely managed to stop himself from cackling and ruining everything before he got to see the payoff.

“What’s not funny?” Harry asked.

Bobbi looked at him, her expression turning just a bit hesitant. She looked to Clint, who stared back unhelpfully. “Look, Potter. I’ve been training a long time. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

Harry immediately unzipped his hoodie and shoved it into Clint’s arms. He walked back onto the mats and stood there, his arms crossed impatiently.

Bobbi’s face fell, and she dropped her gym bag at Clint’s feet. “I’ll go easy on him,” she said quietly.

Clint caught the handle of her bag with his ankle and began pulling it out of the doorway. He dumped Harry’s hoodie next to it. “Don’t start until I get back,” he said.

Bobbi looked a bit confused and Harry rolled his eyes. Clint ducked out of the training room and down the hall into the weight room. He killed the music, and waited impatiently for the grumbles to die before making his announcement.

“Morse and Potter are sparring in training room three.”

The agents looked around at each other, their indecision visible. Declan freed himself from the squat machine and reached for a towel.

“I’d pay money to see that.”

His words made up the others’ minds and the room began to clear.

“Anyone seen Natasha?” Clint asked.

“The pool,” someone said helpfully.

Clint didn’t run, but it was a near thing. The pool was empty except for Natasha and Clint stuck a hand in front of her to get her attention. She pulled up her goggles and frowned at him.

“What’s happened?”

“Harry versus Bobbi in training room three.”

She pulled herself out of the pool. “Grab me a few towels.”

Thankfully Harry and Bobbi had agreed to wait, though both of them scowled at Clint when he walked through the door. About twenty agents had made themselves comfortable against the walls, and Natasha and Clint joined them, she still squeezing water from her hair.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Bobbi said.

“I disagree,” Harry said, flexing his hands. “This is an excellent idea. Let’s get it over with.”

Bobbi took a deep breath and fell into a defensive position. Harry didn’t give her any time to settle. He ran forward, sweeping his right leg out. Eyes wide, Bobbi fell back on her off foot, her right leg striking for the glaring opening on Harry’s left. He blocked her kick with his arm and then shifted, trapping her foot against his ribs. Bobbi bent her knee and twisted, her left elbow glancing against Harry’s temple. Her foot free, Bobbi fell back a few paces.

Her expression hardened in concentration, and she made the first move. She feinted left, but struck with her right fist. Harry grasped her wrist and bent it back, following through by pinning her arm behind her back. A well placed jab with his off foot had Bobbi on her knees.

The room fell completely silent.

“Holy shit,” one of the watching agents said.

Harry released Bobbi and took a few steps back. Bobbi took her time getting to her feet, shaking her hand out.

“You’re Romanova’s mini-clone,” she said, and sounded more amused than upset.

One of the other agents climbed to his feet. “Can I tap in?”

“Oh yes. Please do,” Bobbi said, still flexing her abused hand.

Bobbi walked over to Clint and kicked him in the leg. “You jerk,” she said, collapsing down on the mat next to him. “You didn’t tell me he was lethal.”

“I knew you’d figure it out. If it makes you feel better, I haven’t managed to beat him yet.”

There was a grunt on the other side of the room, as Harry quickly put Aryrons on the ground. Henicks was already on his feet to take his turn. Natasha was leaning forward, watching Harry with the same intent expression she did every time she had the opportunity to watch him fight. She was puzzling something out, but Clint wouldn’t ask until she offered.

Harry sent three more agents limping off before he finally called an end to it. The agents filed out of the room, ribbing each other good-naturedly. Harry’s hair was dripping with sweat by then, and he and Clint finally took their interrupted shower. Clint could tell Harry was uncomfortable, especially with the attention he was suddenly receiving. Natasha had looked the same way, but it had faded eventually. Clint had no doubt that Harry would get over it with enough time.

Natasha met them outside the locker room, her eyebrows raised. Harry glowered back at her.

“What now?” he asked.

“I’ll let it slide this time,” she said. “But if any of them ask to spar with you again, don’t do them any favors.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to the side. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” she asked. “So you didn’t draw out that fight with Morse for the fun of it?”

“Why would I do such a thing?”

Clint slid in-between them, and wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders. He began moving them down the hallway, unable to ignore his growling stomach.

“You’re both terrifying,” he assured them. “Food now. Vague statements later.”

***

There were few people who would walk into his office without walking, and Phil had memorized the tread of each of them. The Director’s stomping was distinct, and Phil was sitting and waiting when he walked through the door.

“Pull up the security footage for the sector B-17.”

Phil immediately turned to do so and was even kind enough to put it on the oversized monitor mounted on the wall.

“Pull up archived footage from forty-five minutes ago.”

Phil pulled it up, and sat back with a frown when he saw Potter’s nearly indistinct form emerging from one of the vents. There was no way he could have known that Fury had replaced all the cameras in the building with thermal imaging. Anything too hot or too cold clearly showed up. He and the Director watched Potter disappear into the garbage chute, one of the few entrances to the building that wasn’t monitored.

Phil reached over and jotted down a quick note to have that addressed. Then he reached over and paused the footage. The Director stared silently at the screen for a moment, and then turned to Phil.

“Sir?” Phil prompted.

“Monitor the situation.”

Phil blinked. “That’s all?”

“Until we have more information, yes.”

“If those are your orders, sir.”

“They are.” Fury stomped out of the room.

Phil sat back in his seat. He reversed the footage and paused it just as Potter began to contort himself down the chute. He wanted to be disappointed but he wasn’t. The kid had managed to find the one place in the building where he could safely sneak away. He glanced at the door, which still stood slightly open, and checked his smile.

It was still better than Clint, who had gotten his hands on some spray paint and gone to town. Or even Natasha, who had disappeared into the building for three whole days. He understood the Director’s concern, but didn’t share it.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonding. Then, Phil and Harry are more than a little terrifying, especially when they're together.

There was a lot to be gleaned from someone’s bedroom; Clint had learned that fact early in life. There were the shallow observations of course, like levels of messiness. An experienced mind could delve deeper, and necessity had given Clint all the opportunities he needed to become experienced.

Natasha’s room was neat without being sterile, but Clint knew for a fact that she was utterly aware of every single item. Once, curiosity made Clint sneak in and rearrange things just to see if she’s notice. She had of course, and had snuck into Clint’s room in return. It had taken him three days to persuade her to give him back his pants and underwear. It had been his first glimpse of her sense of humor, and he’d found it to be razor sharp, understated, and utterly amazing.

Standing in the semi darkness of Harry’s bunk, Clint could only think that it was depressingly empty. Three months was a long time, but it was also no time at all. Perhaps it made sense that Harry had nothing to fill his room with. He had come to them with nothing but his body suit and his weapons, and those were conspicuously absent.

The coffeemaker that had gone missing from one of the break rooms had been given a place of honor on the counter next to the small sink where an array of chipped mugs sat in various states of cleanliness. But that was the extent of Harry’s personalization.

Clint knew all about waiting. He knew the look of it in all its forms, especially the subtle ones. Harry was not settled here, but the honest truth was that Clint would have been far more surprised if that had not been the case.

Harry had nothing, and Clint had nothing to give him. It should not have mattered, but it did. His childhood had not been entirely joyful, but Clint still carried small reminders of happier times with him. It was not so much the things themselves, but the memories they held. Even Natasha had managed to hold onto a few of those things, and her childhood had been even unhappier than his. Had they forced Harry to leave his memories behind when they had snatched him off the roof? Clint didn’t know, and that fact was surprisingly distressing.

He wanted to know. He wanted to be sure that Harry remained here, another interesting thing that Clint had managed to find and hold close.

His presence here was not a secret, so he didn’t move when he heard the doorknob begin to turn. If Harry was surprised to find someone standing in the center of his bunk with the lights off, it did not show. He offered Clint a single unreadable glance and then moved around him like he wasn’t there. He began to unload himself of his weapons. First his knives, then his belt of vials, and finally a series of long sharp needles. He laid them out in careful lines on top of the dresser, gaze lowered. Clint stepped closer, examining them with a tilted head.

He reached out to touch one of the needles, but Harry was quicker. Almost faster than Clint’s eye could follow, his fingers wrapped around Clint’s wrist.

“Not a very good idea.”

His accent was strong tonight. Clint grinned before he could stop himself, and Harry rolled his eyes. Harry released him, his gaze on his weapons.

The thought came suddenly, and Clint was speaking almost before it was fully formed. “These are your memories.”

For a moment Harry went very still. Then he glanced up at Clint through his wild fringe. His tilted his head in question.

Clint took a bracing breath. “Well, you don’t have anything,” he said. He motioned at the near empty room. “I guess I didn’t realize it until now. But you have those.”

Harry’s face went very still, his expression unreadable. He had nothing to say, Clint could tell. Natasha had been the same in those early months, and even now there were things that she wouldn’t talk about. Clint danced around the topic, and cheerfully landed on another one. 

“So,” he said. “Where have you been sneaking?”

Harry’s face didn’t even twitch. “I’m sorry?”

“You found the opening in the basement right? The garbage chute. They’ll be watching it now. Thanks for that by the way.”

Frowning, Harry turned from him and began shedding the first layer of his armor. This he was less careful with, tossing the thin dark colored kevlar plates in a heap next to his bed. He was nearly bare from the waist up, but was not shy. His scars told a story, just as Clint’s scars did. There was a particularly interesting one on the inside of Harry’s right arm. It vaguely resembled a burn. It began at the elbow and blossomed out in pale creeping lines. There was another high on=-=- his chest just left of center, smaller and slightly raised. Curiosity made Clint lean closer, but Harry stepped away, tugging a hoodie on in one motion. He perched himself on the edge of his bed, crossing his legs and settling his folded hands on his knee, all while wearing one of the most powerful glowers Clint had managed to wring from Harry so far.

A smart person wouldn’t have pushed, but Clint had never claimed to be all that smart. He started to sing, “Mary, Mary, quite contrary. How does your garden grow?”

Harry made a sound like an angry cat. “Fuck you, Barton.”

Clint laughed, and collapsed on the bed next to Harry. Silence settled over both of them, and Clint waited until some of the tension left Harry’s back and shoulders.   

“I have an older brother,” Clint said without moving. “Well, _had_ an older brother. My parents…” Words failed him, as they so often did when he tried to talk about this stuff. He shrugged, and out of the corner of his eye saw Harry turn his head. Clint was careful to keep his eyes on the ceiling. “They died when were young, and we were shipped around for a while. Ended up in an orphanage, which was even worse. 

“Are you going to meander your way to a point anytime soon?”

Clint snorted. “I’m trying to tell you that I get it.”

Harry’s deep sigh conveyed his impatience perfectly.

Clint nudged Harry with his elbow. “You’re in the waiting period.”

“The what?”

“The waiting period. You’re waiting for everything to go to shit. You haven’t settled yet, because you don’t see the point.”

“Is that what you know?"

Clint turned his head and met Harry’s gaze. “Yes?”

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be,” Clint said.

Harry hummed, turning his gaze away in disinterest. Clint let the silence linger for longer this time, and he yawned. Harry shifted next to him, pulling his legs up to his chest and resting his chin on his knee.

“Your brother…”

“Hmm?”

“What happened to him?”

“Oh.” Clint sat up and stretched his arms above his head. “I killed him.”

Harry blinked, and hesitated for a long moment before saying, “That’s not what I was expecting.”

Clint laughed, and then laughed harder when he saw Harry’s confused frown. “My brother was a bastard, and he deserved what he got. If he were standing in front of me right now, I would stab him in the face. Then I’d probably piss on him.” He said all of this without dropping his grin, and Harry’s frown deepened.

“No regrets? None at all?”

“Of course,” Clint said. “Show me someone who says that they have no regrets and I’ll show you a liar.” He allowed his voice to harden. “But some things need doing. Killing Barney was one of them.” Clint nudged him with his elbow again. “Ok, kid. It’s your turn. Anything you want, but you have to tell me something. It’s only fair.”

“I’m not obligated to tell you anything,” Harry said.

“No you’re not, but I’d like you to.”

Harry was quiet for a long moment. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. Clint waved him on. “I haven’t had a drink in three months,” Harry continued. “Get out the hard stuff, and let’s do this properly." 

Clint was on his feet almost before Harry had finished speaking. “You’re underage,” he said.

“Not in Britain,” Harry said. 

“Good enough for me. Come on then. I know where Natasha hides her stash.”

Something odd happened then, and if Clint hadn’t been watching for it he wouldn’t have noticed. Harry’s eyes narrowed, and a shrewd look flickered across his face. Clint was careful to keep his expression the same and turned his head. An instant later Harry relaxed, or relaxed as much as he ever did.

“How about we keep this between us?”

“Scared of Nat? It’s okay. It means you’re smart.”

Harry smiled, but Clint wasn’t fooled. Harry had not relaxed, if anything he had grown even tenser. “Right,” Clint said. “I’ll be right back. I think I know where Coulson keeps his stuff.”

It took him about twenty minutes, there and back. When he returned, Harry had turned on the lights. He’d also finished getting out of his body armor and had taken out his contacts. He looked almost comfortable, nearly domestic. His glasses did a passable job of concealing the apathetic glint in his eyes and his feet were bare, long slender toes curling absently in the comforter. He was sitting cross-legged, his knives and needles spread out on a large darkly colored oilcloth in front of him. Clint dumped his finds on the bed next to him and settled on the floor next to the bed.  

“Coulson’s a whisky man.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Harry said without looking up.

Clint picked up one of the bottles and screwed open the top. He waved it under Harry’s nose. “C’mon, kid. This was your idea.”

Harry took the bottle from him and took a long drink. His nose wrinkled as he swallowed, and Clint made a soft surprised noise. Harry passed the bottle back, his lips twisting up into a rueful smile. This one was subtler, rueful, and so much more genuine.

“Surprised?” Harry asked.

“A little bit. This is strong stuff.”

Harry hummed and turned back to tending to his blades.

“Okay, kid. You’ve procrastinated enough. It’ll be dawn before we get anywhere.”

Harry sighed. “My favorite color is blue.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “That’s a start.” He pushed the bottle at Harry again, and watched him take another large swallow. “What kind of blue? Like baby blue? Turquoise?”

Harry looked up, his head tilted to the side in thought. “You know the color of the sky right before or right after a bad storm? Gray and white and blue all tumbling together? That color.”

“Damn, kid. That’s almost poetic." 

Harry’s lips twitched around the rim of the bottle, and placed it in his lap instead of passing it over. Clint didn’t call him on it. Instead he claimed the unopened bottle still sitting on the bed.

“You know what color is the most unappreciated? Purple.”

Clint had timed it just right, when Harry had been mid swallow. He sat back and watched as Harry choked out a startled bark of laughter.

“What?!”

“Purple is the color of royalty, you know.”

Harry cleared his throat, his lips twitching into a smile. “Purple, like lavender?”

“Please,” Clint said. “Like _damson_.”

A soft incredulous sound emerged from the back of Harry’s throat. “What the hell is damson?”

Clint sniffed primly, and stuck his nose in the air. “It’s a color. The awesomest color. It’s also a fruit. Educate yourself, whelp.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Okay, you have to up yourself. That’s how this works.”

Harry’s smile was easy and only slightly mocking. Clint was happy to call it progress. “There are rules?” he asked, and Clint gestured with the hand holding his bottle.

“That!” he said. “That right there. Why do you hide it?”

Harry’s brow furrowed in confusion and he glanced over his shoulder for what Clint might be talking about.

“Your accent,” Clint said. “Why do you try to hide it?”

Harry shrugged. “Habit, I guess.”

“No, no. Full answers.”

Harry sighed and began putting away his weapons. He handled each lightly, keeping his fingers well away from the blade. Clint watched with interest as he slid his blunt fingernails over the brushed metal handles. He picked one up, fingering the ring at the base, and spun it around his index finger. He did this all absently, his gaze distant.

Clint’s smile was fond, and he made no effort to conceal it.

“Why does Natasha hide hers?” Harry asked.

“Nat doesn’t have an accent.” Harry glanced at him over the top of his glasses, and his expression spoke loudly enough. “She does?” Clint asked. “How did I not know that?” He tilted his head and regarded Harry, who was carefully averting his eyes. “How did you know?”

“It’s been conditioned away,” Harry said. “But it’s there, if you know what to listen for.”

“Why are you so bad at hiding yours?” The glare Harry gave him was brief but heartfelt. He didn’t respond, and Clint didn’t push. “C’mon, kid. You have to give something up. Something big.”

Harry finished setting aside his blades, and took a few large swallows from his bottle. It had been mostly full when they’d begun, but it was quickly nearing half empty.

“My parents were murdered when I was a baby, and I was sent to live with my mother’s sister.” Harry took another long swallow. “She was a bitch, her husband was a fat arsehole, and their son didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. They hated me, and it wasn’t until I found out that I was a wizard that I knew why.” Harry’s tone was light. It was not as causal as Clint’s, but it was clear that he was largely unbothered by the subject. Or he was trying to be.

“How bad were they?”

Harry shrugged. “They never liked me. They were scared of me, mostly. After…my training, my Master took me back there. I killed them. The only reason their son is still alive is because he was away at school.”

Clint shook his head. “Shit, kid. Were they your first?”

“Sort of. Technically my first was when I was a baby, even if it didn’t stick.” Harry glanced up at the ceiling in thought. “I was eleven the first time I voluntarily killed someone, but I didn’t see him die.” He paused. “Sixteen was the first time I did it properly." 

“I was fifteen,” Clint said. “Some bum on the street jumped me for my shoes. Broken bottle.” Clint touched the side of his throat.

“Gunshot,” and Harry reached around and tapped the back of his head twice.

Clint hissed through his teeth. “That’s intense.”

Harry shrugged. “Could’ve been worse.”

“Amen to that,” and Clint raised his bottle. Harry knocked the neck of his bottle against Clint’s.

They drank in silence for a few minutes, both lost to their thoughts.

“Why?” Clint asked.

“Hmm?”

“Why did he take you back there?”

He glanced up to find Harry watching him, his eyes sharp behind his glasses. After a long tense moment, he sighed.

“To release me,” he said. Clint stared at him blankly and Harry made a frustrated sound. He leaned forward, his face becoming the most animated that Clint had ever seen it. “He was releasing me from my past, and the fear I’d felt then. With nothing behind, there is only forward.” 

Clint took a moment to process that. “I’m the last person who’d judge you for something like that,” he said. “And hear me out on this one. Isn’t it a greater show of strength to put the past aside without, you know, slaughtering it?”

Harry sat back, animation draining from his face.

“It’s easy to forget the past when you don’t have to face it. The Dursleys treated me like dirt, and made it very clear that they thought I would never amount to anything. Before they died I made sure that they knew how wrong they were.”

“Did it make you feel better?”

Harry’s smile was sharp. “Yes,” he sighed. “Tons better.”

Clint thought about Barney. The satisfaction he’d felt when he’d seen that it was _over_ , and he understood.

Even so… 

“Someone told me once that revenge shrinks the soul,” he said.

Surprisingly, Harry didn’t mock him. Instead he tilted his head to the side in a wordless question, and Clint shrugged. “It shrinks the soul until there’s nothing left. A good man is someone who can release his anger without having to destroy its source.”

“I’m not a good man,” Harry said easily. “But I know that the Dursleys can never hurt me again, and I negated their existences by destroying them. There’s strength in that.”

Clint accepted that with a nod. “I’m pretty sure that if I had a soul, it shriveled away a long time ago.”

Harry smiled, loose and easy. “Do you regret it?”

“No,” Clint said musingly. “And what’s the significance of that I wonder?”

Harry shrugged. “We’re damned men.” He turned his gaze away, expression sobering. “But someone’s got to do it.”

Clint raised his bottle in a clumsy toast. “Dude, truth.” He sighed. “Let’s do something less depressing.” He pulled a pack of cards out of his pocket. “How’s your gin rummy?”

Things got a bit unclear after that. Clint learned that as stoic as Harry came off, he knew a truly impressive amount of dirty jokes — 

(“Why was the guitar teacher arrested? For fingering A minor.” “Oh my god. That’s _amazing._ ”) 

— But the rest of the evening was a giant blur. What had to be hours later, he woke with a groan, one hand coming up to cradle his head in an attempt to keep his brain from trickling out through his ears. The noise that had woke him, sharp impatient pounding on the door, came again, but louder. Clint made a miserable sound and let himself fall onto his side. One hand fumbled out and grasped the edge of the comforter on Harry’s bed. It only took a few firm tugs to get the entire thing onto the floor with him. He rolled gracelessly, tucking himself in the tight space under Harry’s bed. The knocking came again and Clint moaned.

“Being a bit of a drama queen aren’t you?” Harry said from somewhere above him.

“Shut the fuck up and answer the goddamn door.”

Clint was careful to keep his eyes closed, but he couldn’t help but hear Harry get to his feet and pad over to the door.

“Did you boys have fun last night?”

“Loads,” Harry said. “Fun nights, hard mornings.”

“But not for you,” Natasha said, and her voice was low and amused.

“Clint’s a bit of a light weight. I thought for sure that the smell of coffee would get him up.”

Natasha’s bell like laugh made Clint groan again, which only made Natasha laugh harder.

“It takes more than that.”

Harry made a short amused noise.

Listening to them, Clint would think that Harry was completely at ease with her, and she him. But he knew the truth now. They were so similar, even their avoidance techniques. It should have terrified him. Instead it made him want to laugh — to wrap them up and steal them away where they would never leave him. He desperately wanted to think that they’re weren’t being fake toward one another. He could be mostly sure concerning Natasha. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t bother. She was very straightforward that way. Clint’s knowledge was a direct result of experience. Time, he thought bleakly. Three months was really no time at all. Or was it an eternity? Either way, it sucked.

Their conversation had continued: Natasha commenting with her sharp humor over Harry managing to get dressed, and drink a pot and a half of coffee without waking Clint. Harry responding, making no effort to hide his accent as he wondered how Clint had managed to get by so long as an agent while being such a heavy sleeper.

Clint rested his temple against his arm, and sighed in contentment. For a moment, just a moment, he lost himself in the soft sounds of their voices. But all things, especially the goods ones, came to an end.

“Coulson’s waiting downstairs for you,” Natasha said. "I’m sure he’s wondering who broke into his desk, but he won’t be hearing anything from me. You better go, I’ll make sure the mess is cleaned out by the time you get back.”

Harry’s laugh was low and dusty, like he hadn’t used it in a while. The door closed and Natasha’s distinctive gait approached the bed. He heard her perch on the edge and he reached out to loosely wrap his hand around her ankle.

“How’d it go?”

“The kid can hold his liquor,” Clint said, and then groaned at the sound of his own voice.

“I sat around waiting for you guys all night,” she said, her voice chiding.

“He said no.”

Natasha went quiet for a moment. “I have to pull back,” she said.

Clint made a soft noise of agreement. “I think you intimidate him.”

“Do you think?” She sounded frustrated, and Clint squeezed her ankle.

“Let me finish,” he said. “You intimidate him because you two are so alike." 

Natasha was quiet for a long moment. The foot that Clint was not holding began to bounce in a rare show of nerves. “Is it worth it?” she finally asked and was obviously speaking mostly to herself. “If he doesn’t want to be here, then why bother?”

Clint said nothing, but she wasn’t truly expecting him to have an answer. After another long moment Clint heard and felt her stand up. “Did you at least find out where he went last night?”

Clint grunted out a negative. 

“You drank Coulson’s good stuff and you don’t have anything to show for it?”

“Next time you can drink with the jailbait. We’ll see how it turns out for you.”

Natasha huffed out her amusement, and reached down to uncurl Clint’s fingers from around her ankle. She paused, and then purposefully pressed Clint’s palm flat. Clint tried to pull his hand back, but one of Natasha’s hands wrapped around his wrist.

“I guess he felt sorry for you,” she said.

“What?”

“Look at your hand, zaychik.”

It was too dark under the bed, so Clint was forced to drag himself at least partially out of the nest he had begun to make for himself. He squinted at his palm, and tilted his head to the side.

“Who scribbled on me?”

“Here’s our answer,” Natasha said.

“Base Seventeen? Isn’t that…” He struggled against his headache. “Shit, that’s Rikers. What the hell was he doing at Rikers? How does he even know about it?”

Natasha shook her head. “Don’t know.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Natasha wouldn’t speak first; she rarely did. Clint sighed, and glanced down at his hand again.

“We should take this to Fury,” he said.

Natasha’s eyebrows rose.

“They wouldn’t burn him just for this. I mean, Fury has to know that he snuck out, and if he really did go to Base Seventeen, there’s no way Fury doesn’t know about it.” Natasha tilted her head to the side in agreement. “So why tell us? He has to know that Fury’s on to him; I as good as announced it last night.”

“He’s young,” Natasha said.

“He’s only five years younger than me.” Clint frowned down at his hand, and was quiet for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “We’re being played aren’t we?”

“Not enough information to say for sure,” Natasha said, her voice and expression flat. 

“Well where is he?” Clint asked, attempting to finger comb his hair into order. “Let’s go wrestle it out of him.”

Natasha led the way to where she’d last seen Coulson, but both he and Harry were long gone. They wandered the building for the next few hours, trying to kill time. Eventually Natasha grew impatient enough to break into the ops control room. She zeroed in on the greenest, and most nervous looking probie, and stared at her until she pulled up a list of active ops. There was no indication that Coulson and Harry had left on a mission, which was damning enough on its own. They retreated to Clint’s bunk where she sat and brooded on his bed while he pawed through his piles of clothes for something clean.

They should have been training, or going over mission briefs — Clint knew for a fact that Natasha had a backlog of consultation requests. Instead they lounged around Clint’s room, and if it felt like someone was missing, neither Clint nor Natasha said anything about it.

 

* * *

 

 

The Director had not asked for Phil’s opinion, something that was not altogether unusual. However, if given the opportunity Phil would have put this entire thing off, and this was doubly true in light of Potter’s recent ‘outing.’ Their relationship was too new, untested. The only fix was time, but it was often the one thing they didn’t have.

It was a short trip from New York to D.C., and Phil spent most of that time surreptitiously watching Potter. Like many operatives, he was able to drop into a light doze almost at will — more of a way to kill time instead of any manner of meaningful rest. Phil left him to it, but split his attention between him and the material he’d put together. There was a lot to cover, and it was too much to hope that nothing went wrong.

If the initial meeting ended without conflict then Phil would consider it a success.

Three quarters into their hour and a half flight, they were hailed by an unknown frequency. Potter opened his eyes, but remained silent as an unknown voice told them to divert from their current course. They were directed to land on the roof of the Franklin Square building. It was an unnecessary show of power, and Phil didn’t even try to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. He nodded to the pilot and settled back into his seat. 

Two people were waiting on the landing pad. As Phil approached he noted that one of them was a young woman, blank faced with dark hair and eyes. The young man at her side was obviously the mouthpiece of the two. He bowed his head bowed against the wind the helicopter kicked up, and offered Phil his hand. 

“Agent Phil Coulson? My name is Jack Stone!”

Phil shook his hand, and wordlessly motioned at the door leading off of the roof. Stone led the way, and Phil had the pleasure of watching Potter and the young woman glower at each other. Potter won, and the woman finally turned her back. Stone turned as soon as the door closed behind them, and offered his hand again. 

“Right sorry. Um, like I said, I’m Jack Stone, Level Three Finder. This is Gayle Reyes, senior Auror. We were sent to escort you through the building.”

“Thank you,” Phil said. Then, “We were surprised to be diverted.”

Stone looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Yes well. You’re here now. That’s what’s important right?”

Phil smiled thinly. “Right.”

Stone glanced at Reyes, but she wasn’t looking back. Instead she had attempted to resume her staring contest with Potter, except he wasn’t indulging her this time. Phil huffed lightly through his nose.

“Uh, right well. This way.”

He led them to an elevator, and Phil noted with faint surprise that it was far larger than it appeared on the outside. It was the first indication of magic Phil had seen here. Curiosity almost drove him to ask how it had been done, but a quick glance at their guide showed that his attention had settled quite firmly on Potter. It was clear that he wanted to speak, but Potter’s resting face was as unwelcoming as ever.

“It’s an honor to meet you Lord Potter,” Stone finally said. The look Harry shot him could have boiled water. Stone actually flinched back but didn’t stay cowed for long.

“I uh…” He looked at the young woman who raised her eyebrows at him. “We visited England and spoke to some of your friends. Madame Hermione Granger sends her regards.”

Potter’s nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed, and Phil shifted so that he could step between them if it came down to that.

“Your godfather says hello.”

All at once Potter deflated. He shook his head, giving Stone one last glare before staring flatly at the elevator doors. Stone sucked in a breath, his expression tentatively concerned. He yelped softly as Reyes dug the heel of her boot into his toes.

The elevator doors opened a moment later and Phil managed to meet Potter’s eyes. He seemed fine, annoyed but fine.

The lobby they entered was eerily silent, and Phil took it all in with narrowed eyes. They were met by two men, one of them was wearing a more elaborate version of the uniform Stone and Reyes wore. The other was dressed in a dark expensive looking suit. They were both a few years older than Phil, with twin grave expressions. One of them, the one wearing the suit reached forward to shake Phil’s hand. He was a large man, easily six feet, thick around the waist and across the shoulders. He had shortly cropped dark hair and his eyes were a dark flat brown. Phil glanced quickly between Reyes and the man, as he reached forward to take the man’s hand. The man smiled, but there was little amusement to be found in it. 

“I am High Councilman Reyes. You’ve met my daughter." 

“Yes,” Phil said, his head tilted to the side when Councilman Reyes squeezed his hand. Phil squeezed back, and smiled thinly when he saw the Councilman’s expression falter. “Phil Coulson, Senior Agent at the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division.”  

The other man reached forward next. His expression was knowing as he glanced at Councilman Reyes, and he pressed his lips together in apparent amusement.

“Richard Shift, Chief of the Central Magic Defense Agency.” His lips twisted ruefully. “CeMDA.” 

Phil smiled. “SHIELD.”

“Good to meet you.” Then he glanced over Phil’s shoulder, his face growing serious. “And you must be Lord Harry Potter.” 

Phil’s eyebrows shot up, and he turned to Potter in question. Potter glowered between Phil and Shift, as reluctant to speak now as he had been since he’d stepped into the helicopter.

“I gave up my Lordship before I reached my majority,” he said through clenched teeth.

Chief Shift’s lips pressed together, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “Is that so? So what do I call you? Mister?” 

Potter was silent for a long moment, the muscle behind his jaw bunching as he clenched his teeth. “Call me whatever you want.”

“We call him Agent Potter,” Phil said.

“Agent,” Councilman Reyes repeated, like he’d suddenly discovered a sour taste in his mouth.

Potter turned that considerable glower onto him, but Councilman Reyes looked unaffected.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Councilman Reyes said to Phil.

“Agent Potter, if you’ll come this way,” Chief Shift said, and motioned the opposite direction.

Potter’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step back to stand shoulder to shoulder with Phil. “No.”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Councilman Reyes said, and Phil barely stopped himself from wincing at the condescension.

Potter reacted exactly the way Phil expected, with a scowl so powerful it made the Councilman blink at him.

“My agents visited England to gather information on the situation there,” Chief Shift said. “Our investigation stalled. Agent Potter might be able to clear some things up for us.” 

Phil remained placidly questioning, and Potter went right on glaring.

“We’d thought to move things along by having both meetings at the same time,” Shift said. His mouth twisted up into a rueful smile. “But I don’t see any reason we can’t interview Agent Potter latter.”

“No,” Potter said. 

“Mr. Potter…” Councilman Reyes began and Phil jumped in before he could make things even worse.

“It wasn’t my understanding that Agent Potter was here for an interrogation,” he said, and watched Councilman Reyes face tightened in displeasure.

“You’re here as a courtesy,” the councilman said. “Mr. Potter, if you refuse to answer our questions we will be forced to take you into our custody.”

Harry took a half step away from Phil, his stance becoming loose, his face dangerous. “Try it.”

“Let’s all calm down,” Shift said.

“Will you come quietly?” Councilman Reyes asked.

Shift sighed loudly, and rubbed a hand over his face. Phil shifted, creating space between him and the other group. He couldn’t say he was completely surprised. They had walked into this situation nearly blind, and it was clear the Potter’s history in this society was more torrid then he’d said. They had a check-in in twenty-four hours, if they missed if SHIELD would mobilize immediately. It would be too late for them, but Fury wasn’t an idiot; he would have contingencies. He caught Potter’s eyes, trying to convey that the situation truly wasn’t as bad as it seemed. He wasn’t sure if he’d gotten the message, but other that saying it aloud there wasn’t much else Phil could do.

“Gayle, take care of the mundane. Shift, take Potter into custody." 

Potter stepped in front of Phil, his eyes already beginning to glow. “Make one move toward your wand, and I’ll slaughter everyone in this building,” he said. “Except you,” he said pointing at Councilman Reyes. “You, I’ll keep alive, even after you beg for death.” He rested his hand on his holsters strapped to the outside of his leg. “Look at me and tell me I won’t do it.”

The young woman made a short angry sound, probably provoked by the threat to her father. Shift reached out and wrapped a hand around her wrist. He was looking at Phil, his eyes wide in a silent plea. Phil toyed with setting Potter loose on them, and if he’d been completely confident in the situation he might have. Instead he sighed, longly and loudly, and touched Potter’s shoulder with his fingertips. He’d judged it right, because Potter twitched, his head ticking just slightly to the right so he could put Phil in his line of sight.

“No one is going to take you anywhere without your say-so,” he said to Potter, but his gaze was locked with Shift’s. “However, if Harry is feeling particularly agreeable, he might answer a few of your questions, if you _ask.”_

_“_ Like hell —.”

Phil touched Potter’s shoulder again, and amazingly, the agent fell silent.

Shift released Auror Reyes’ arm, and turned to frown at her. He continued to frown until she finally shifted out of her aggressive stance. Phil stepped out from around Potter, taking a moment to examine his face, which remained carefully blank under Phil’s regard. Later, Phil would reflect over Potter’s almost instinctive move to protect him. Now, he cleared his throat and stuck his hands in his pockets.

“I understand that this situation isn’t ideal for either party,” he said. “Your society has obviously spent a lot of effort to hide from us. There are relatively recent circumstances that understandably lend to further mistrust.” Phil paused deliberately, tilting his head to the side. “The world is growing smaller and …” Phil allowed his gaze to track to the ceiling in thought. “Weirder. In two years a new bill will be introduced into Congress.” 

“I assume you’re referring to the Mutant Registration Act,” Councilman Reyes said. “That has absolutely nothing to do with us. You cannot —.”

“Please,” Phil interrupted. He offered the Councilman a thin smile. “Let’s pretend that the Registration Act goes through.”

“It won’t,” the Councilman said.

Phil blinked through the spike of annoyance. “Let’s pretend,” he repeated.

The Councilman sighed through flared nostrils, his heavy brow lowering in clear distaste. “If the Act is ratified, the mundanes will be forced to publicly recognize mutants, but it _won’t_ _happen_. It’s a heavy step down a road no one wants to go down.” 

His implication was obvious, and Phil tipped his head to the side in acknowledgement. The privacy issue was the main platform the Act’s opponents stood upon. Even organizations that had remained vague on their stance regarding mutant rights were lending their support to the nay-sayers. Not too long ago, there had been another forced registration, and it hadn’t turned out so well for that particular group of people. Phil understood their reasoning. He also understood the need to protect the populace from threats it was ill equipped to handle on its own. 

There was no mutant community, no epicenter. Registration was a step that direction. There could be no governance without unity.

Phil’s opinions on the whole thing were moot. At the end of the day SHIELD was not a political entity, nor even a policing one. Primarily, SHIELD’s modus operandi was to gather information. Control of the manner that information was distributed was inferred. What was the point in gathering the information if it could not be directly translated into degrees of control? Cynical it may be, but the world could not turn without it. 

“They may not have magic,” the councilman said. “But the American citizens value their privacy too much to give it up.”

Phil paused, genuinely surprised by this show of optimism. He narrowed his eyes, examining the Councilman’s face, which had closed off as soon as he’d finished his speech. Not optimism, he realized. Denial. That, he was definitely not surprised by.

“The Act is ratified,” Phil said. “ _Every_ mutant must register, even the ones who don’t wish to. Some will try to hide and the US government is then in a position where they have to develop an easy means to test for the x-gene. Something cheap which can be done by someone with little training. They will investigate anyone displaying human plus abilities. Your people have stayed hidden so long because no one was looking for you. That’s definitely about to change.”

“And what does your organization mean to do about it?”

Phil clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. “We want to help." 

“And what can you do?” 

“A lot.” Phil saw the frustration begin to bloom and spoke again to cut it off at its roots. “Too much to comfortably discuss it in the middle of an empty lobby.”

Potter huffed lightly through his nose, but remained silent when Phil turned to look at him.

“Will you answer our questions?” the young man, Stone, asked Potter. “Please?”

The Councilman turned, his brow furrowed in either distaste or disapproval. Chief Shift seemed unsurprised, almost fond.

“Jack here spearheaded our intelligence gathering on you, Agent Potter. All the inconsistencies are driving him crazy.”  

Phil could not make him do this, and the realization was at its best, unwelcome. Success was solely in Potter’s hands, and the unfortunate truth was, Phil did not trust Potter to make the right call. Phil looked at him, and saw that there was a new look on his face. He was frowning, his gaze resting past the group in front of them. He didn’t look angry, but pensive. More importantly, he was making no effort to conceal his frown.

He blinked then, slowly, obviously responding to his own thoughts. He glanced at Phil and exhaled heavily through his nose — pronounced, but not hard enough to be a sigh.

“I’ll tell you what I want you to know,” Potter said. “And that’s it.”

Stone spoke before anyone else could. “That’s better than nothing.”

Chief Shift led them up a flight of stairs, and through a door on the landing that could be seen from the lobby floor. It was a little bit like an interrogation room, mirrored on one side with a moderately sized conference table surrounded by a number of padded lobby chairs. Stone sat almost at once, digging through his messenger bag for a notepad and an antique fountain pen. He placed it against the notepad, but when he released it, it remained standing. Phil positioned himself in front of the mirror, watching as Potter slowly prowled around the edges of the room. The young woman, Auror Reyes, had accompanied them, and made a good effort at keeping Potter in her line of sight. Chief Shift didn’t bother. He collapsed into the seat next to Stone, groaning like a man twice his age.

Potter did not sit down. Instead he made his way over to a large mirror that occupied half of one of the long walls. He reached out, the palm of his hand a scant inch away from making contact.

Phil had had the unfortunate experience of being electrocuted before. It hadn’t been serious, but it had left an impression. Years later, he was convinced that his body had known what was coming an instant before it came. Much like the sensation of standing in the middle of a field during a thunderstorm right before lightning struck, in the moment before electricity shot up through his fingers, up his arm, and across his chest, that was what Phil had felt — a dire prediction of discomfort. The palm of his hand an inch from the glass, his eyes glowing almost superficially, Potter invoked the same sensation. Only, he pull his hand away, and nothing happened.

Phil allowed himself a series of blinks and Potter took advantage of everyone’s distraction to pull out one of the chairs. The other one he nudged with his foot until he’d turned it 90 degrees. His booted feet went into the seat, and he folded his hands over his lap. He looked up at Phil, did the heavy breathing thing with his nose, and then turned away.

“Ask your questions,” he said, looking down at his hands. 

Stone spoke at once, clearly indicating that all he’d been doing was waiting for permission. “Where were you during the period between July of ’94 to May of ’98?”

Potter looked up, clear green eyes fastening themselves onto Stone. To his credit, the man only swallowed, and otherwise showed no sign of being intimidated.

“I was in training,” Potter finally said.

“With the League of Shadows?”

Phil’s eyebrows rose and Potter’s left toe began to tap idly in the air.

“Someone’s been telling tales,” Potter said.

“Your godfather mentioned them,” Stone said. He leaned forward in his seat. “He had another interesting theory.”

“Sirius Black,” Potter said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. He drew the unfamiliar name out, rolling the syllables across his tongue. “He’s a murderer, you know?”

Stone glanced at Chief Shift, who stared back at him. “I’m not entirely certain of that,” Stone said.

“You’re an idiot,” Potter said, but not altogether unkindly. He paused, foot still tapping. “Where was I?” he repeated. “London for awhile. Moscow. Gothem. Prague. Tel Aviv. Bogota. Asmara.” Potter paused. Then said, “That’s not the answer you want.”

“No,” Stone said. “Not really. What were you doing?”

“Killing people, generally.”

Stone sucked in a startled breath, but recovered quickly. “Voldemort?”

“I got to him eventually.”

“ _How?_ ”

Potter shifted his weight lazily, foot still tapping. It wasn’t a nervous movement, and Phil ideally wondered what it indicated. He watched it, and slowly a pattern began to emerge. The tapping took deliberate shape. E-M-R-G-C-T-L-D-S-R-I-N-T-S-R-I-C-U-L. It was obviously morse code, but beyond the first abbreviation Phil couldn’t make sense of it. Potter glanced up at him, his eyebrows raised. Phil risked tipping his head to the side, but Potter just looked away. 

He did not look to Stone, but to Shift, who had remained silent and watchful. “You think your people are being sneaky, but they’re not.”

Shift’s lips parted, but then he closed them, his expression darkening. “What do you mean?”

“You lot have mastered the use of wizarding space.” He tipped his head back and spoke directly to Phil. “There’s a series of spells that alters spatial relations. It can create entire rooms out of nothing, connect locations separated by hundreds of miles. That sort of thing. It can even shift the location of rooms entirely.” Potter relaxed his neck, allowing his shrewd green eyes to land on Shift, while still speaking for Phil’s benefit. “The first wizards who traveled here were masters at it, and they use it in ways that English wizards wouldn’t even think of. Usually its impossible to tell whether or not you’ve entered wizarding space.” He smiled. “But I’ve become rather sensitive to that kind of thing.”

Phil took a slow breath, and also allowed his gaze to settle onto Shift. “You’re telling me that this room has moved.”

Potter nodded. “It moved as soon as the door closed.”

Phil made use of the chair Potter had abandoned, sinking down into it without lifting his eyes from Shift’s. He drummed his fingers on the table, and allowed his anger to bloom on his face.

“I suppose we have no one to blame but ourselves,” he said to Potter without looking at him. “We approached their leaders offering our help. How foolish of us to assume that they were being equally forthright about their motives.” 

Stone was looking between them and Chief Shift, his expression growing more and more concerned. The Councilman’s daughter was doing an admirable impression of a statue, her right hand resting against her hip. Chief Shift just looked tired, and perhaps a little bit guilty. Potter sighed loudly, slumping down in his chair.

“Look,” he said. “You don’t seem like a complete idiot.”

“Thank you,” Shift said.

“If this Act thing is real, if it happens, you’ve got to know that you guys can’t survive on your own.”

“I think you’re overestimating my influence,” Shift said, his tone as flat as his expression. “Why do you care, Agent Potter? From what I understand, your experiences across the pond weren’t the best ones. This debacle can’t have endeared us to you." 

Before Potter could respond, the door opened. Phil did not move, and neither did Potter. Instead they sat and watched as they were surrounded by uniformed men and women, all with their wands raised.

Potter let them settle around him before he spoke, a clear show of his lack of intimidation. “Let me make something clear,” he said. “The only reason this is happening is because I’m letting it happen. I would keep that in mind.”

He turned and glowered at one of the men, motioning with an impatient flick of his fingers for him to step back. The man hesitated for a brief moment, but he went, giving Potter enough room to get to his feet. Shift got to his feet as well, and offered Phil an apologetic look. 

“Harry James Potter,” he said. “Under the Salem Articles 102.02, I, Richard Shift, Divisional Chief of the Central Magical Defense Agency, take you into official custody for international war crimes, including but not limited to, the murder of Supreme Wugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Will you come along quietly?”

Potter smiled sharply and offered his wrists. “I’ll come along,” he said.

The young man that Potter had glowered into submission stepped forward. He pointed his wand at Potter’s wrists. “ _Totam Ligaveris._ ” Bright green rings emerged from the end of the young man’s wand, and wrapped themselves around Harry’s wrists.

Harry’s lips twitched, his amusement obvious. He flexed his wrists, and the rings of light flickered. Point made, Potter relaxed.

“Influence or not,” he said. “I would take my advice. If that avenue is still even open to you.”

Phil stood as he was escorted from the room. He took a long moment to tug the wrinkles out of his jacket, doing up the buttons with steady hands.

He was not alone in the room. Chief Shift has stayed behind, and so have the two original agents, Stone and Reyes. Jacket straight, button’s done up, Phil sinks his hands in his pockets and frowns down at his shoes. Someone sucks in a breath. Phil is not interested in who. He raises his hand, and waves the unspoken words away. 

“Agent Potter has not been with us long,” Phil said. “But he is ours.”

He finally looked up, examining each of them in turn. Stone appeared visibly uncomfortable, so much so that he was wincing. Reyes was frowning between Phil and her superior, and Shift…Shift had the air of a man who was trying very hard not to look guilty. He also looked embarrassed. It might have been enough to dispel someone else’s anger, but not Phil’s. He’d said ‘ours.’ He’d meant ‘his.’

“Your leaders have made an overt hostile action toward my organization, which was acting with the full support of the US government.” Implication clear, Phil left it at that. “My understanding of Agent Potter’s situation is…tenuous. I would appreciate clarification.”

Shift sighed. “Agent Coulson, I’m under orders to erase your memories of this encounter and return you to your people.”

Phil tipped his chin down, his brow furrowing. “That would be a mistake.”

Shift ran a hand over his face, covering his eyes for a long moment. He sat back down, shoulders rising and falling in a huge heartfelt sigh.

“Understand my position,” he entreated.

Phil made a sharp dissenting sound, turning his face away in an uncontrolled show of his anger and frustration. 

“I’ll give it a year, maybe two, after the Act passes,” Phil said. “People have had time to get used to mutants. But this? Magic? People fear what they don’t know, and they’ll be terrified of you. Forget registration,” he continued. “Persecution. Forced segregation. Control.”

“We’re more powerful than you,” Shift said. It sounded like a rout argument. No heat, no personal conviction.

Phil smiled, sharp, and just a little bit cruel. “Twenty years ago I might’ve agreed with you. You don’t seem like a complete idiot,” Phil repeated Potter’s words, and Shift, impossibly, laughed.

“Thank you,” Shift said.

He ran a hand through his hair, and let it settle on the back of his neck. He stared down at the tabletop for a long time, and Phil did not interrupt.

“You’ll still help us?” Shift asked.

“My organization will…”

“No,” Shift interrupted. “You.” 

Phil exhaled deliberately through his nose. “My personal inclination isn’t relevant,” he said. 

Shift stared at him, gaze expectant. Phil was pissed enough that he didn’t give an inch, even if it wasn’t exactly the polite thing to do. Eventually Shift nodded and looked away.

“I’ll represent your case to the council. I can managed that much at least.”

Phil nodded. “Good. In the meantime I’ll make contact with my superiors. I didn’t want to mention this before, but any failure on my part to check in within twelve hours would’ve forced SHIELD to take hostile retrieval procedures. Good thing for you, you made the right choice.”

Shift looked too drained to look properly cowed by that, and Reyes was still impersonating a statue. That was fine, Stone appeared more than terrified enough for the both of them. It didn’t make it better, but it certainly didn’t make it worse.

 

* * *

 

One auror had tried to touch him as they traveled down through Bureau headquarters. One angry look is all that it had taken. They were careful to take him the short way, bypassing the main offices and the portal room. A part of Harry, the sassy part, wanted to tell them not to bother. He remained silent, moving as directed. 

The cell they showed him to was rather nice altogether, and he stepped inside. As soon as the door as closed, Harry allowed his magic to ooze out of his skin. He set it to task on the wards around his wrists. It nibbled at first, the magic unfamiliar, but then it gorged. The green rings disappeared under a wave of black, and on the other side of the door Harry heard the Aurors utter involuntary sounds of distress, and disgust.

“Holy Shit,” one of them said, peering through the bars with a wrinkled nose.

Harry snorted and took a single step toward the door. The Auror was at least four years older than him, yet he barely managed to stop himself from flinching. 

“Why are you still here?” Harry asked. “I’m not in the mood for small talk.” 

“I’m supposed to take any weapons you have on you,” the Auror said.

“Are you?” Harry tilted his head to the side. He smiled. “Come get them then.”

“You’re not supposed to be able to use magic down here,” the Auror blurted.

Harry looked down at his feet, where his magic had pooled. A mental nudge, had it easing itself back into his hand. It slipped between his fingers, present but not. Solid, but not.

“I’m going to get my supervisor,” the Auror said.

Harry watched him go, allowing the magic to settle back under his skin. With a flick, he unsheathed one of his knives. The blade was sharp, so sharp that he barely felt it part the skin of his palm. He clenched his fists a few times to let the blood pool. Then he carefully went to work. He only had to deepen the wound once, and it the whole thing only took a few minutes.

By the time the Auror returned, Harry was sitting on the low cot in the corner, his knives, daggers and bo-shuriken had been laid out neatly just in front of the bars.

“They will be returned to me exactly as I gave them,” he said.

Then he lay down and turned his back to them. He closed his eyes, and began to wait.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has no time for this nonsense. Jack discovers that Harry is a (scary) brat. Natasha, Clint and Phil work to reclaim what's theirs.

If she had the time, or the inclination, Hermione would have realized that she lived her life in phrases. When she’d been young, her most often thought phrase had been a more innocent rendition of, “well fuck them anyway.” In Hogwarts there had been two: “oh my god, seriously?” and “am I really the smartest person in the room right now?” That had been before Harry disappeared, before the Voldemort had come back. After, it had been, “This can’t possibly get any worse,” at which point it inevitably would. Now, her most often thought was, “I really don’t have time for this.”

She was certainly thinking it now.

“How much longer?” she asked.

Conway somehow managed to look even more apologetic, but Hermione wasn’t interested in that. She thought of the pile of paperwork waiting for her back on her desk at Hogwarts, and pointedly checked her watch.

“I’m sorry Madame Granger,” Conway said. “If I’d known that the meeting would run late, I would’ve waited to contact you.”

Hermione had already asked what Minster Gloryflower wanted of her, but Conway didn’t know. There was nothing to do but wait. Unfortunately, Hermione’s patience had eroded grossly over time. She paced in front of Conway’s desk for a few more minutes, her heeled boots tapping on the stone floor.

The Gloryflower estate was expansive, and structurally sound due to the fact that magic hadn’t had any part in its construction. Its proximity to Hogwarts meant that it wasn’t quite so taxing to be there. When it had become clear that the Ministry was too polluted to even make an attempt at continuing to work there, the Minster had offered up her empty home to house the struggling offices. Many department heads had even made their homes here. It was a quick apparation away, so close to Hogwarts that most wizards could manage it without straining themselves. 

Hermione had been offered an office and rooms here; as far as she knew they were still empty.

The double doors to Gloryflower’s office opened, and two unfamiliar men stepped out. Their uniforms were familiar, and Hermione’s eyes narrowed in thought. They stared at her sternly as they passed, no doubt wondering what a teenager was doing standing outside the Minster’s office. Such looks had largely stopped by Hermione’s third month as undersecretary, but Hermione hadn’t forgotten how to deal with them. She tilted her head up, very aware of the way the light glanced off her damaged eye. Only one of the men managed to hold her gaze as they passed; the other blanched and looked away. Hermione watched as they disappeared through the archway into the main hall, wondering what business the Americans had that brought them here with increasing frequency.

When she turned the Minister was standing in the doorway to her office.

Hermione had not known of her before she’d been elected. Her family was not a particularly old one, but her father had gained notoriety during the war against Grindelwald. At first glance, she did not seem like a person who might make a good wartime Minister, but after Fudge had been outed, and Scrimgeour and Bones had been killed in the attack on the Ministry, she, as deputy Director of the Auror Department, had taken over. She was a slender woman, only slightly over five feet tall. Her hair was a mess of bright orange curls, today barely tamed by a braid. It was only noon, but she looked as frazzled as Hermione felt.

“Bunch of fecking eejits, each one,” she said, her irish brogue strong.

Hermione had heard her say far worse, but the dangerous expression was a bit novel. She turned and stomped back into her office. Conway looked even more nervous, and offered Hermione a bemused shrug as she followed.

“Close the bloody door!” Minister Gloryflower said, but Hermione was already doing so.

She sat down in one of the armchairs by the window, watching the Minister where she was slumped in the chair across. Hermione’s foot began to tap in impatience, loud against the stone floor. The sound made Gloryflower look up and she huffed, smoothing her hair away from her face.

“Those were Americans,” she said.

“I know,” Hermione said. “I recognized their uniforms. What did they want?”

“Nothing good.” Then like a snake striking, she said, “They’ve arrested Harry Potter.”

Hermione’s spine stiffened, her breath leaving her in a short astonished huff. The anger followed, cool, creeping, and she tipped her chin down toward her chest.

“For what?” she asked, but she already knew the answer.

If anything Gloryflower looked vindicated, her anger buoyed by Hermione’s. “War crimes, among other things.”

“Other things?”

“Dumbledore’s murder,” Gloryflower said.

Hermione was quiet for a long moment, frowning down at her shoes. No one had managed to pin down the cause of Headmaster Dumbledore’s death, and two years later it was still often talked about. Not even the tabloids had bothered to connect Harry with it. She began to gnaw on her thumbnail, thoughts deepening. It was possible that the Americans had pulled this right out of their collective arses, but the very idea was so ludicrous that Hermione had a hard time believing that anyone would go for it.

“When did this happen?” Hermione asked.

“Two days ago.”

Hermione’s spine straightened, her brow furrowing in further outrage. Gloryflower waved a hand, her expression much the same.

“I know,” she said. “I _know_.”

“Why are they doing this?” Hermione asked. “Why did they send two of their agents here to conduct interviews?Why do they even care?”

“Politics, girl. It’s all politics.” The Minister leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Picture this. Europe at war off and on for eighty years. WWI, Grindelwald, WWII, 1st Rise, 2nd Rise…” Gloryflower shook her head. “You were only around for the last, so you can’t imagine what it was like. Grindelwald was going around gathering people up in the dead of night trying to create his own nation. The muggles were blowing each other up. Hitler was doing his thing.” Gloryflower sighed and shook her head, the very thought of all these things were enough to drag her shoulders down. “It was a mess,” she said. “And the American Bureau was careful not to step in it.”

None of this was news to Hermione. After Harry had disappeared, she had devoured all the information she could on Voldemort’s 1st Rise. That summer had been the calm before the storm. Things had still been an adventure then, Harry’s unexplained silence only troubling instead of terrifying. That had been before September 1st, before the simultaneous attacks on Puddlemere, Falmouth and Tinworth. Mass murder certainly had a way of enforcing the gravity of a situation. She knew that the Americans had been conspicuously silent during the 2nd Rise, just as they’d been during the 1st. What she hadn’t known was their lack of involvement in WWI and WWII. The Ministry’s preoccupation could be explained away, Grindelwald creating enough trouble that its attention could not be easily split. The Bureau had no such excuse.

“The International Conference couldn’t have taken that well,” Hermione said and Gloryflower smiled.

“Understatement,” she said. “The Bureau has always maintained that they were dealing with secrecy issues. Mutants and Augments were popping up all over the place. They do seem to congregate there, but it was nothing more than what the rest of the world was dealing with.”

“So what are they playing at?”

“Any number of things. They might be trying to save face.”

Hermione’s hiss of outrage was involuntary but heartfelt. “Harry had nothing to do with —.”

Gloryflower raised a hand. “You know that,” she said, not altogether unkindly. “And I believe you when you say it but look at it from their point of view.” She sat back and crossed her arms.

Hermione huffed. “Their point of view? I can’t possibly see —.”

The Minister’s eyebrows shot up, her head tilting to the side. It was enough to snatch the words from Hermione before she could finish uttering them, and she sighed.

“Trying to save face,” she repeated. “By punishing the wizard responsible for the restructuring of magic on the Isles…”

Gloryflower waved her on.

“It would show an interest in international affairs. A renewed global conscious. But why?” Hermione got to her feet and began to pace. “They’ve never cared before. Why now?” She paused, chewing thoughtfully on a thumb nail. The knowledge came so suddenly that Hermione flinched. “The Mutant Registration Act!”

The Minister had straightened in her chair, face blank as she worked to come to the same conclusion. After a moment her eyebrows rose. “Ah,” she said. “Yeah, that’ll do it. They’re also probably worried that Harry might do the same to them. They really don’t need attention from their muggles just now.” 

Hermione slumped back down into her seat. “They’re trying to curry favor with the rest of the conference. It doesn’t matter if Harry had anything to do with this mess or not. By trying him in front of the world, they’re as good as saying that he’s guilty. Detaining him makes sure that he can’t do it anywhere else.” She shook her head. “Stupid.”

“I suppose your waffling didn’t help when those agents came to speak to you,” Gloryflower said.

Hermione knew better than to take offense. The Minister’s bluntness was something that Hermione had grown very used to.

“So what are our options?” she asked.

“I’m sending you over there,” Gloryflower said, like it was obvious. “They had no right to detain one of our citizens.”

“And if they don’t agree?”

“ _Make_ them agree,” Gloryflower said. “Our situation is fecked enough without being taken advantage of by a bunch o’ bloody, limp-dicked arseholes. You’re the best person for this. You go and take care of it. Bring that boy home.”

Hermione nodded. “If you say so, Minister.”

“Talk to Conway about getting you access to our portkeys. Leave as soon as you can.”

Hermione nodded, already halfway to the door.

The apparition back to Hogwarts was easier today, fueled by her anger and sense of purpose. She appeared on the grounds just outside the gate. Behind her, the now familiar bustle of New Hogsmeade continued. She took a moment to listen to the sounds of people rebuilding, of _living_. Sometimes it was easy to forget the big picture and what she had fought so hard for. This world might be adopted, but it was _hers._ These people were her people and together they would remake what Voldemort had worked so hard to destroy.

There were a few older children out on the grounds enjoying the fall weather, and they waved as Hermione passed. The entrance hall was as busy as it always was, and work slowed in her wake as she made her way to her desk. She sat down in her chair and when she looked up she was already surrounded.

Morag was at the head of the pack, as she usually was. She dropped a thick portfolio on the one clear spot on Hermione’s desk, resting her four fingered hand on top of it.

“My team has finished the Rowle records. There are a few holes, but we think that if we cross reference the Blacks or the Crouchs we can fill them. The retrieval team is half done on the estates.” She flipped open the portfolio, and handed Hermione the summary sheet. “There was a collapse at Dore House. No one was injured,” she added quickly when Hermione frowned up at her. “But I need more people if we’re going to get it done before the ceiling comes down on us.”

“A pensive,” Hermione said. “Does it work?”

“Haven’t tested it yet. No one on my team could pull out a memory.” Her face fell for a moment, nonplussed by her own thoughts. “I’m sure I can track somebody down to test it for us.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Hermione said. “They found an intact one on the Yaxley estate as well. Just pass it off to Kirke’s team.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll see if I can pull anyone else off the other estates but -.”

“Don’t hold my breath, I know. Ta, then. I’ll see you later.”

What followed was more of the same. Hermione’s impatience must have been showing on her face, because a few of the stragglers turned and went back to their desks without speaking to her. At some point Neville had parked himself on the edge of her desk. He raised his eyebrows at her as soon as he saw that he had her attention.

“So?”

“I need a cuppa, like twenty minutes ago.”

The corners of his mouth curled up into an almost-smile. “Is the news that good?”

“Tea, Nev.”

He snorted, and nodded at the cup that he’d placed near her elbow. He knew her well enough to know how she liked it and he was smart enough to wait until she had taken a few fortifying sips before engaging her. He leaned forward when he placed the

“It’s not good,” she warned, and Neville shrugged.

“When is it ever good?”

Hermione knew better than to waffle with him, so with no lead in she said, “The Americans have arrested Harry for war crimes and for killing the Headmaster.”

Neville blinked at her. “That might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“The Minster thinks that they’re doing it to save face in front of the International Conference.”

“No, that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Hermione hummed her agreement from around the rim of her mug. They sat in silence for a while as Neville thought, his expression turning more and more grim.

“This is a problem,” he said.

“Obviously.”

He shook his head. “Well what are you going to do?”

“Go get him,” she said, steel threaded through her tone.

His smile was just as sharp as hers, and she took solace in that. He was a reminder, of good times and bad.

“Oh,” he said theatrically. “I got a letter today.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah,” Neville said, undeterred by Hermione’s lack of enthusiasm. “He’s doing well and he asked about you. Again,” Neville added pointedly.

Hermione drained the last of her tea and got to her feet. “I’ve got to get going.”

Neville knew better to press.“Happy hunting,” he said. “Tell Harry I say hello.”

“I’ll do that,” Hermione said. “And I’ll bring him home.”

 

* * *

 

Before now, Jack had had very little reason to descend into the Bureau’s lower levels. The cells there were not designed for long term imprisonment, and the few prisoners who’d been held there had been moved. It was almost funny how much fuss everyone was making, funny until Jack remembered the cold look on Harry Potter’s face, the barely controlled violence in every move he made. He looked younger than Jack had expected, shorter too. Discounting his face, Jack would think that he was any other teenager.

It had not taken long for Jack to decide that his age rested in his eyes — like Madame Granger, and Neville Longbottom. Jack had a full decade on all of them, but he felt diminished in their presences, stupid.

He was more than willing to put up with it, all of it, to get answers. _Real_ answers.

The detainment level was empty save for two guards playing a card game at the station just outside the lift. They straightened as soon as they saw Jack standing there. Their eyes tracked to the badge he wore on his left shoulder and Jack was relieved that it wouldn't be necessry to talk his way passed them.

“Don’t get too close,” one of them cautioned.

Jack paused, fingers tightening involuntarily on his messenger bag. “Why?”

“Because we’re pretty sure that his glare can set people on fire,” the auror said. “Everyone who's come to visit him were quick to leave.”

Jack released his held breath and called up a smile. “Thanks for the advice.”

Potter had been put in a cell all the way at the end of the hallway, no doubt to give his guards more time to react to the alarm wards should he try to escape. At first glance it looked like he was sleeping, stretched out on his back on the cot in the corner, one foot resting on an upturned knee. As Jack approached, his foot started tapping and he opened one of his eyes.

“Do you know what the worst part about all this is?” he said, apropos of nothing.

“What?”

Potter suddenly sat up and got to his feet, moving closer to the bars. Jack was careful not to move, even when Potter came within an arms-span. This close, it was easy to see that Jack was a full head taller than Potter. He was also broader across the chest and shoulders.

Potter tilted his head to the side, as if he could sense Jack’s thoughts. “Disappointed?”

Jack took a tiny step back, working to maintain eye contact. “About what?” Potter spread his arms, motioning to himself. “Uh, no.” Jack cleared his throat. “I mean, I saw photographs of you from before you disappeared and there’s the one that someone managed to take after you’d killed Voldemort.”

“Hmm.” Potter apparently lost interest then, and began to retreat back to his cot.

Free from his attention, Jack took a bracing breath and released it, running his sleeve across his forehead. Someone had conjured a chair, and left it behind. Jack made use of it, sitting down right as Potter arranged himself back on the cot.

“What’s the worst part?” Jack asked.

“Hm?”

“What’s the worst part about all this?”

Potter sighed. “No one will bring me any coffee.”

It was an innocent thing, and it was said so tragically, that Jack smiled before he thought to stop himself. “I’m sure someone would bring you coffee if you asked.”

“I have asked,” Potter said. “Apparently I might use it to escape, or whatever.”

It was such a little thing, and the misery in Potter’s voice was real. “I’ll see if I can do anything about that.”

Potter turned his head, his eyes narrowed. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Uh, yeah. I would. It’s not a big deal. I mean…”

Jack knew that he was rambling, and managed to cut himself off. Potter was managing not to outright laugh at him, but his amusement was palpable.

“I thought, if you were up to it, you would be willing to answer some of my questions. We were sort of interrupted before.”

The attempt at levity dropped between them like a stone and Jack cleared his throat in theoppressive silence. Potter didn’t react except to frown, an expression that was there and suddenly gone again. Still reclining on the cot, he turned his head, giving Jack an unobstructed view of his face. His expression was coolly unreadable, and his eyes were flat. When his head turned, his hair shifted, giving Jack a clear view of his scar for the first time.

It was such a little thing to hold so much significance. Jack had seen pictures of it, of course, and he’d read about it. He didn’t know what exactly he’d expected, perhaps something like his preconceived notions of Harry’s stature and personality. Yet there it sat above Potter’s right eye looking just like Jack expected an old scar to look.

“If I’m up to it,” Potter repeated, as if Jack were making up words and doing a poor job of it.

“Yes,” Jack said. “I completely understand if you’re…” Jack floundered for a moment before finally settled on, “…disinclined to that.” Jack pretended not to hear Potter’s derisive snort. “But I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

Potter stared at him, his expression as unmovable and as warm as stone. There was a watchfulness as well, and a stillness that Jack was careful not to be fooled by.

“I won’t tell you how I killed him,” Potter said. “Or where I was trained. Call me dramatic, but answers that big deserve a better venue.”

Jack frowned. “Those are sort of my biggest questions.” His annoyance grew. “You could say that those answers are the only reason I’m here.”

Amazingly, that stone like expression cracked, and Potter smiled. It was almost pleasant. “Good thing I’m not here to please you then.”

Jack had to take a moment, fighting for control over his temper. “Okay,” he finally said. “That’s fine. Something smaller then?”

Potter turned his head away and closed his eyes. Jack figured that that was as much of a go-ahead he could expect.

“Why are you working with muggles?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Isn’t it?”

Jack grit his teeth. “All right,” he said. “What about Dumbledore? Did you kill him?

“Your boss seems to think I did.”

“Did you?”

Potter made a soft thoughtful sound, eyes still closed. Jack couldn’t read him at all, couldn’t see if the question moved him. All his research said that he and the Headmaster had been close when Potter had been in school, but there was no sign of it now. When Jack had carefully brought up his ties to England there had definitely been a response, even if it had been one of frustration and annoyance.

“Yes,” Potter said. He suddenly sat up and approached the bars again.

Impossibly, he stuck his hands through them, and Jack scrambled to his feet. The bars were for show but the wards certainly weren’t. They should have prevented anyone from placing any part of their body outside the cell. But Potter did it, those long tapered fingers deliberately wrapping themselves around the bars where they had no business being. Jack held his wand in his hand, adrenaline making his heart pound in his chest and in his throat.

“I killed him,” Potter said. “I snuck into Hogwarts that night and murdered him as he sat behind his desk. He was so happy to see me.” Potter paused, the corners of his lips twitching into a cold smile. “He didn’t know it was happening until it was too late.”

Jack had to take a moment, his revulsion so potent that it made him take a step back. He beat it back, exhaling harshly through his nose.

“Why did you do it?”

Potter blinked at him. “Because I’m an evil son of a bitch. Hadn’t you heard?”

“No,” Jack said evenly. “I hadn’t heard that. The people I spoke to in England seemed to hold you in high regard. Not one of them mentioned that you’d killed Dumbledore.”

“Well I did.”

“Really?” Jack leaned forward, his hand tightening around his wand. “Then why keep it quiet for so long? Why tell me now?”

Jack wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but laughter wasn’t it. For the first time Potter seemed genuinely

amused, his laugh emerging as a low huffing wheeze. It didn’t last long; every soon he pushed away from the bars, shoulders shaking.

“What’s so funny?”

Potter just shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. Jack deliberately unclenched his fist, slipping his wand back into his holster.

“You’re disappointed.” It wasn’t a question this time.

Jack nodded anyway. “A bit,” he said.

Potter nodded, appearing unsurprised. He began moving back to his cot, his interest exhausted.

“One more question, Agent Potter.”

Potter retook his previous position, on his back with one leg resting on his opposite knee. He waved Jack on without looking at him.

“Are you sorry that you killed him?”

Potter didn’t even pause to think. “No,” he said.

Jack left after that, seeing no good reason to stay. The two aurors guarding the hallway took one look at his face and very carefully kept their silence. He stepped onto the elevator, stabbing the button for his floor so hard that his finger was still smarting when he stepped onto his floor. The other Finders were careful to avert their gazes, but Jack could sense their curiosity. He slipped into his office, glad that his rank afforded it to him. He closed the door, the click of the latch catching sounded very loud.

The office was small, horribly cluttered, but _his_. At that moment, Jack was so grateful for it that his eyes burned, a little too close to tears. He sunk down onto the armchair he had managed to fit in the corner and then focused wholly on his muscles. He relaxed each one in increments. Soon he was sitting easily, his breath slow and calm, deliberate.

Body taken care of, his turned his attention onto all he had learned today. The information came to him in streams. All the things that he’d read and heard waiting patiently for him to put it all in order. There were holes of course, yawning pits in the web, but perhaps now there was finally enough to work with.

Potter had asked if Jack was disappointed. ‘Disappointed’ barely covered it. He had thought he’d purged himself of his naiveté a long time ago; one did not become a Finder, let alone a leveled one, without knowing the evils that men seemed all too willing to inflict upon each other. Potter’s admission shouldn’t have surprised him.

But it did.

He’d fallen for it, for all of it. He’d been drawn in by the absurdity of a baby ending a war, into the mystery of the boy who had lived, disappeared, and returned. Perhaps Jack had been expecting a hero, but was there any such thing? The kid Jack had met was just that, a kid. Dangerous, yes, but ultimately a teenager with an attitude problem. This was the person those hardened people in England were determined to protect. Jack couldn’t see what made them do it, and could only conclude that they knew something he didn’t.

There were other more important holes to be filled. Potter’s disappearance and the deaths of Voldemort and Dumbledore were at the top of the list. Yet all Jack could think about was how the hell had the Council known enough about Dumbledore’s death to connect Potter to it.

It was the wrong question, and truly not any of his business. He pondered it anyway and it lingered, a stray puzzle piece against the larger picture. There was no data for it, none at all. Frustration chased his concentration away and he opened his eyes.

Reyes was standing in the open doorway, face as blank as it always was. Jack startled at seeing her there, coming all the way out his chair.

“Hi,” he said.

He began to move toward the mess on top of his desk, thinking to straighten up a little bit. He rarely received people here. A second look reiterated the scale of undertaking, so he quickly aborted the motion. Instead he folded his hands in front of him, but then unfolded them to let them hang at his sides.

“What’s up?”

“Where do you go when you do that?” she asked.

The question made him blink, but he recovered quickly. It wasn’t a question that he was unfamiliar with. As soon as anyone had a good idea of the extent of his memory, they often asked how it worked.

He responded the way he always had. “It’s complicated,” he said, hoping that it would be enough.

Reyes’ lips twitched into a smile. “Why don’t you try me?”

Jack hesitated but eventually fell back into his armchair. By the time he remembered that he should offer Reyes a seat as well, she had already perched herself on the one clear bit of desk, her legs crossed.

“I’m an Occlumens,” he said.

Reyes’ brow furrowed in confusion for a moment, but soon lifted with understanding.

“You’re young,” she said.

Jack shrugged. “I started training as soon as I could talk. My grandmother was the one who figured out that I had managed to teach myself to read. I was two. She insisted on a tutor. By the time I got into Salem I was considered a Master.”

“I bet that made classes easy.”

“Yeah…” Jack stared at her, taking in her sharply pressed uniform jacket and her heeled boots. “What are you doing here?”

Reyes folded her hands in her lap. She didn’t do anything so overt like fidgeting, or biting her lip, but her nervousness was apparent.

“It’s Potter isn’t it?”

Reyes’ dark eyes narrowed and she sighed. “There’s nothing keeping him down there,” she said.

“I know.”

“He could leave at any time. He can _eat_ our magic. He doesn’t show up on any magical scans. And he’s just sitting down there. The only thing he complains about is the fact that we won’t give him any coffee.”

“Why won’t you?”

Reyes blinked at him, breathing through flared nostrils. “What?”

“Why can’t he have coffee?”

“Because he killed Albus Dumbledore and Voldemort, the two most powerful wizards in Britain since the Hogwarts founders. Because we _can’t_ control him.”

There was nothing funny about it, but Jack smiled anyway. “Don’t you think we should keep him happy then? What’s so hard about a cup of coffee?”

“That kid doesn’t deserve any coffee!”

Jack leaned back, blinking. “Why not?”

“Because he’s a _murderer_ ,” she hissed. “The whole time we were in Britain the magic felt disgusting, and _he_ did it.”

It was the most heated he’d seen her, and the sneer on her face was sharp and ugly. He pressed himself back into his chair as much as he could, crossing his arms over his chest. A strained silence fell over them, and eventually Reyes regained control over her expression. She also crossed her arms, and frowned down at her boots.

“There are some things missing from this story,” Jack said, tentatively piercing the silence. “You must see that.”

“You say it like it isn’t real,” Reyes said. “People _died._ They lost their homes and their magic, all because of this kid.”

Jack took a moment, waiting out the flare of irritation. Reyes must have seen something in his face, because she sighed. The heat bled out of her expression, and her shoulders dropped.

“I know its real,” Jack said. “I was there. I saw everything that you saw.”

Reyes nodded. “I know.”

Jack stared at her for a moment, hearing the apology that she would never explicitly offer. “He killed Voldemort,” he said.

“I think that the price was a bit high, don’t you?”

“I think that we’ll never understand what those people were willing to pay. And maybe they should be the ones who get to decide if they paid too much.”

The words silenced her, but more importantly they made her think. Good.

“I need your help,” he said.

She paused, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. Her nod was a tiny thing, hesitant. Jack spoke quickly, wary of her changing her mind. “Think this through with me, okay?” He waited for her to motion him on. “We only reported back a few days ago,” he said. “There haven’t been any Council meetings before today. It takes a majority vote to indict a foreign national on our soil.”

“How do you know that?”

Jack waved the question away. “ _Listen_. Those charges didn’t come out of our report. They couldn’t have. The Council waited until after our visit anyway.”

“Our investigation was covering up another source,” Reyes said, her eyes narrowing. “So what?”

“So what?” Jack repeated. “So, they _used_ us. They lied to us - to me.”

Realization crept up from his stomach, crawling up his throat. It made his ears heat and his jaw clench.

“Nevermind,” he said.

Reyes blinked at him. “What?”

“Nevermind. I want to be alone. I need to think.”

“You can’t think with me here?”

“No,” Jack said, and it came out far sharper than he had intended. “No,” he said again, more controlled this time. “I’ll…uh…I’ll find you later.”

Reyes took a long moment to uncross her legs, her eyes sharp and dark. She moved over to the door, her heeled boots loud against the wooden floor. Jack’s office was barely four steps wide; Reyes took her time with them. She was still staring at him when she eased the door shut.

Finally alone, Jack collapsed back into his chair, and cradled his head in his hands.

“So what?” he asked the tops of his shoes. “My bosses lied to me. So what?”

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. The reaction was so acute, and so unexpected that its true source was almost lost within it.

When realization came, it felt like someone had flipped the lights on in a dark room. Impossibly, he smiled, and then he laughed.

“So what?” he said, and began rummaging around on his desk for a blank piece of paper and a pen.

 

* * *

 

Hermione arrived at Bureau headquarters with little fanfare. In fact, she had managed to make her way through the first two checkpoints before her name set off the proper alarms. A mid-level employee, likely someone’s secretary, stopped her from filling out her declaration form. She seemed harried, and it was obvious that she had a better idea who Hermione was.

“Please follow me, Madame Granger. I’ve been told to escort you to the Council chambers.”

Hermione stopped writing, but she did not put down her pen. “What business does the Council have with me?”

The young woman and the employee taking down Hermione’s information shared a look.

“I don’t know,” the woman said. “I was only instructed to bring you to them.”

Hermione tapped the end of the pen against the counter, her gaze falling to the half completed form. After a long hanging moment she sighed and moved away from the counter. Both Bureau employees looked relieved.

“This way, ma’am.”

Three out of the five Closed Council members were waiting for her, and she shook each of their hands as they introduced themselves. She ignored the incredulous looks they sent each other when they thought she wasn’t looking.

“I’m going to assume that you’re here in response to our recent acquisition,” Councilwoman Idelle (“call me Lucy, hon,”) said. “We only sent word a few hours ago.” She glanced at the other council members. “We weren’t expecting someone in person so soon. We haven’t even set a trial date.”

“Minister Gloryflower thought it best to send me directly,” Hermione said, unsmiling. “I’d like to see him.”

The words took a moment to penetrate, and Hermione had the pleasure of watching their expressions falter. There was absolutely no reason to deny her request. It was a gamble to see if they would do it anyway. In the end Councilmen Reyes and Teague left through a side door, their frowns eloquently broadcasting their disapproval. Councilwoman Idelle was better at concealing her true feelings. In fact, she threaded her arm through Hermione’s and began to lead her through the large circular hallways, chatting about some new piece of legislation that had passed her desk. Hermione listened just enough to make the proper noises, and there was no doubt that the councilwoman was unaware of her distraction. She continued to fill the air between this with chatter anyway.

They took a lift down a ways, and were deposited at the mouth of a long hallway. The two guards straightened at once but remained silent as Idelle lead Hermione passed them.

“I’ll be right here, hon,” she said. “He’s two cells down.”

Still in earshot, Hermione noted. But it wasn’t as if this entire hallway wasn’t under observation. Hermione took a moment to close her eyes, and then walked forward.

Harry was waiting for her, his hands stuck through the cell bars. He looked so old, but then, they had been children the last time they’d met. His hair was as windswept as ever, his eyes still that shade of bright deep green.

“Where are your glasses?” she asked.

His eyebrows shot up. “Five years and that’s the first thing you say to me?”

“Well?” she asked after a moment of silence. “Where are they?”

Harry stared at her, and finally, _finally,_ smiled. It was not a smile that she had seen him wear before. It was real, as far as she could tell. But it was a small thing, barely touching the corners of his mouth. It was in his eyes though, and that had not changed. Hermione stepped as close to the bars as she could, feeling the wards press against her skin.

“So,” she said. “The Americans have arrested you for war crimes.”

Harry shrugged. “What can I say?”

“And the murder of Headmaster Dumbledore.”

The smile grew into something sharp and nasty, the last thing she might have expected from him. It hurt her a bit to see it, but Hermione was pragmatic. She'd known better than to expect everything to be the same as it'd been. They had both changed too much for that. As if sensing her thoughts, Harry’s expression changed and he reached forward. Calloused fingertips traced the scar where it began above her eyebrow. He followed it down her cheek and the curve of her jaw.

“You would not approve of me very much anymore,” he said.

“Assuming I approved of you at all.”

He tipped his head to the side, conceding her that point.

“Morality in wartime is a nebulous thing,” she said.

“Is there ever a time when we are not at war?” Harry asked.

The question didn’t surprise her. Even at fourteen, Harry had had the singular talent for keeping himself, and everyone surrounding him, honest. He had never shied away from hard questions. But this one had implications that Hermione didn’t want to consider right now. So she ducked her head to avoid his eyes. After a short beat of silence she reached out for one of his hands and held it between hers. His fingers twitched, but he did not pull away from her. 

She had never had much reason to examine his hands and Harry had been shy with his touch even then. She took the moment, finding the unquie calluses that came from handling a wand. She noticed with a touch of sadness that his were beginning to soften. There were new scars too, souvenirs of experiences that she might never know of. Her fingers brushed against a long raised scar that spanned from the base of his right index finger to the tip, and she sighed.

“Peace,” she said. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

Harry’s brow furrowed for a moment, and he shook his head. “It hasn’t even been a year since everything went down,” he said. “It’ll get better.”

She shrugged. “We’ll be recovering for a while. But without you we wouldn’t even be in a position to do _that_ much. _You_ did that and that’s something that these Americans don’t seem to understand.”

Harry stared into her eyes for a long time. Even when it became uncomfortable, Hermione did not hide from his gaze again. He was searching for something in her, and she was suddenly desperate for him not to find her wanting. He was her first friend. The best friend she’d ever had. She had trusted him once, and he had trusted her. Had the war destroyed that too?

“I did a bad thing, Hermione.”

“Harry—.”

He shook his head. “I’ve done a lot of bad things. For the greater good.”

It took a moment, but understanding dawned. Hermione dropped his hand and took a single step back. She buried her sadness, tucking it away with a deftness born of long practice. Harry’s eyes continued to search hers, but his were veiled from her. It hurt in a way that it shouldn’t have.

“We’re still friends, aren’t we?” she asked. Immediately she wanted to take it back, but it was too late. The question hung between them, suspended in a thick oozing silence.

She couldn’t remember him ever making her so uncomfortable before. Even that first day on the train, what felt like so long ago. She had never felt judged by him until now. Her question had disappointed him, but she wasn’t sure why.

“People like me don’t have friends like you.”

Hermione’s anger came on so quickly that she flinched with the surprise of it. She felt her spine straighten, and her head come up. She did not have to see her own face to know that it had gone blank.

“It is very clear that we do not know each other anymore,” she said. “You make assumptions, but you do not know me or what I’ve done.”

Harry leaned forward, his face a breath from the bars. “You mean the Lestange brothers. I know all about that. I know all about Eadestown too.”

Hermione forced herself not to falter, swallowing down her sudden nausea. She blinked at him, and he smiled. “It was the right thing to do,” he said. “The Death Eaters would have killed everyone anyway. Going in their sleep was a kindness.”

“Shut up.”

“You did the right thing,” Harry said, curling his hands around the bars.

“No I didn’t. It wasn’t right, and if you think it is, maybe you deserve what you have coming to you. If you think that mu—.” She swallowed around the word. “Mur—.”

“Murdering,” Harry, offered quietly. “You’re going to say, ‘if I think that murdering those people was the right thing to do, maybe the Americas are right about me.’”

“If you think that murdering those people was the right thing to do, you aren’t the person I thought you were.”

She searched his face for any indication that her disappoint was affecting him at all. She ruthlessly quashed her frustration when she didn’t find it. She almost decided to walk away then; he did not want to save himself, and perhaps there was nothing here worth saving anyway. She looked down at her feet, frowning. She saw it when she glanced back up, a fleeting look of sadness, of regret, perhaps guilt. A blink that was just a bit too long. She straightened, turning her shrewd gaze onto him. He leaned back, affecting disinterest, but it was too late.

“No,” she said, realization dawning. It chased away the sick churning of her stomach, and set her heart pounding not in helpless anger but in excited relief. “Oh, Harry. You’re still so fucking stupid.”

He stared at her. “It’s not worth it,” he finally said, changing tracks. “Hermione, just leave off.”

“No!” she said, and amazingly she felt like laughing, so she did. “I’m sure there’s some reason why you want to stay in that cell, but until you decide to trust me enough to tell me, I’m getting you out of there. Because even if you really think that you don’t deserve our help, _we_ think you do. It’s not about deserving anyway.”

“Hermione…”

“No,” she said again. “It’s not anyone’s place but ours to decide your penitence for what you’ve done. You can’t argue with that, can you?”

Harry stared at her, frustration written in the tense lines of his shoulders, the tight grip of his hands and the bunched muscles of his jaw.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said.

“I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m helping a friend.”

“I’m not your friend anymore!” he hissed, seemingly losing control. “I washed my hands of you years ago.” His voice lowered. “I’ve moved beyond you.”

Hermione laughed in his face. “Keep trying.”

“Goddamit. _Hermione_.”

She just shook her head, smiling.

“Were you always this fucking stubborn?”

“I learned from you,” she said with complete honesty.

It was his turn to shake his head, but there was a smile touching the corners of his mouth now. He looked more like she remembered, rueful and exasperated. Young.

“We are monsters,” she said. “But we became what we needed to be.” His gaze skittered away from hers. “Maybe one day you’ll show me what you’ve become.”

He looked up at her, fingers twitching against the bars like he wanted to reach out. “Maybe,” he said.

 

* * *

 

There was someone in Phil’s office, and it was only the dim light from monitor glinting off dark red curls that stilled his instinctive reach for his sidearm. Romanova was slouched in his chair, booted feet up on his desk. He stared for a long moment, examining the sharp outline of the bridge of her nose, her cheek, her lips, and her chin. Then he flipped on the light, smiling tightly as she blinked up at him.

“Agent Romanova.”

“You’re half a day late,” she said. “And you’re missing something.”

“This is above your clearance, Agent.”

Romanova straightened, placing her feet on the ground with twin unyielding taps, one after the other. Her lips were pursed, expression quickly twisting into displeasure. She didn’t have to say anything, so she didn’t. Phil sighed at her.

“Out of the chair.”

She waited just long enough for it to be clear that she was only moving because she wanted to, not because Phil had asked. It was a familiar interaction, and under better circumstances it might’ve made him smile. They stepped around each other, and Phil did not bother to hide his relieved sigh as he settled into his space. Romanova was kind enough not to interrupt.

“How much do you know?” Phil asked.

“I think it would be faster if you just told me everything.”

Phil laughed at her, and she shrugged.

“No harm in trying,” she said.

She finally sat down in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. She leaned forward, putting herself just outside of Phil’s personal bubble. Tactics like that didn’t work on him anymore, but Phil wasn’t entirely sure she was aware that she was doing it. She was not attempting to be covert in her nervousness. It was a heady thing to be so trusted. Even so…

“I can’t tell you,” he said.

She pressed her lips together. “Is he safe?”

Phil shrugged and Romanova’s eyes narrowed. She looked down at her hands, thoughts suddenly elsewhere. Phil recognized that look, and he despaired at it because it meant injuries, rule-breaking, and the paperwork inevitably generated by those two things. She glanced up at him, and saw the knowledge in his face. But if she saw that, then she definitely saw that Phil had no intention of stopping her. He pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket and pushed it across the desk.

“I have a feeling that this message isn’t for me.”

Romanova’s studied the sequence of letters carefully, her head tilted to one side. There was no indication whether she understood them or not. She tucked the piece of paper into her pocket and got to her feet.

“We need access to Rikers,” she said.

“That’ll raise questions.”

“Hopefully we’ll have answers by then.”

“Answers?”

She shrugged. “Harry’s been sneaking around. We want to know why.” 

Admirable, Phil thought and he nodded, turning to his computer. He clearly meant it as a dismissal, and she was normally very good at picking up his cues. When he didn’t hear her leave he glanced over to see her braced in the doorway, frowning down at her feet. She sensed his gaze and looked up, still frowning.

“Barton cares about him,” she said, and anyone who didn't know her wouldn't have picked up on the defensive note threaded thinly through her tone.

But Phil knew because it was his job to know.

He didn’t say what he was thinking and what he was thinking was that Barton caring about Potter had been a done deal after their very first interaction. It had been the same with Romanova for almost the exact same reason. Barton’s life before S.H.I.E.L.D was a mess. People with happy childhoods don’t grow up to become secret agents or assassins. Romanova was Barton’s reminder that even if he’d had it bad, she had had it worse. She was his reference point. Idly, Phil wondered where Potter fell in the spectrum. Romanova was worldly in a lot of ways, and there were still things that Phil didn't know about where she had come from. It was clear to him that Barton was as much as a point of reference for her as she was for him.

“Just Barton?” Phil asked, because he simply couldn't help himself.

Romanova clicked her tongue against her teeth and left. She didn't answer Phil's question, but then, he hadn't expected her to. He turned and finished giving Barton and Romanova temporary access to Rikers prison.

It wouldn’t fool anyone for very long. He was sure to flag the request for the Director’s inevitable system wide check, figuring that the consequences for not going through proper channels would be relatively mild. It wasn’t as if this was the first time something like this had happened.

He could hear the Directors incriminations as clearly as if they were being spoken -growled- in his ear. He was too close to the assets, Fury would say. This is an intelligence agency, not a daycare. Fury would say it because it needed to be said and Phil would nod and say that he would try to do better. Nothing would change though, because it was understood that Barton, Romanova, and now Potter were what this agency needed. More importantly, they were Phil's.

 

* * *

 

 

“We’re on,” Natasha said, and that was all it took.

Clint slipped his sidearms into his holsters, tossed his jacket on and was ready to go. The day was dissolving into early evening, and agents were leaving their posts. Dressed down in their civvies, Natasha and Clint moved through the other agents without notice. They traveled down into the underground garage, moving with the crowd. There was a brief moment where they both moved toward the driver’s side door, but all Natasha had to do was to raise her eyebrowsand Clint backed down. The drive to Riker’s barely took half an hour, and they spent it largely in silence, the radio filling the car with pointless chatter. 

Natasha had passed over the piece of paper that Coulson had given her, and Clint had spent a few minutes examining it before putting it in his pocket.

She had only had cause to come to Riker’s once before, but she had found herself unable to forget the smell. The East River smelt enough on its own, but the facilities reeked of fear and desperation.

Their IDs got them through the first two security checks, but they hit a snag on the third. The guy was new; Natasha could tell by the wear on his uniform. He called his supervisor, and they waited on the other side of the bulletproof glass, staring at opposite concrete walls. They were only waiting a few minutes before a tall man with thick shoulders loped his way toward them from the other end of the lobby.

“I’m Warden McTaggue,” he said looking between the two of them as if he were evaluating who was the bigger threat.

“Agent Romanoff,” Natasha said, flicking open her badge. Clint did the same. “This is Agent Barton. We represent the US government.” 

McTaggue glanced over their shoulders at the guard, who was doing a poor job of looking like he wasn’t eavesdropping. The last bit had been said for his benefit. As warden of Riker’s island, McTaggue knew about the eleventh prison. He might not know the details, but he knew enough to be helpful.

“What can we do for you?”

“We need to know if there has been any unauthorized activity from Sec-11,” Natasha said.

McTaggue must had known it was coming, but he still seemed surprised to hear the secret prison named aloud. He glanced again at the nearby guard, and then motioned for them to follow him. Eventually they came to his office, and Natasha watched with some amusement as he visibly gained confidence in being in a space that was indisputably his. He sat down behind his desk and leaned back in his chair, hands folded across his sternum. Clint huffed lightly through his nose and made a show of turning away to examine the various plaques hung on the walls.

Natasha stood directly behind one of the visitor’s chairs and raised her eyebrows.

“Our question, Warden.”

“Nobody’s been in or out without my knowing,” he said, and obviously felt comfortable enough to get defensive.

Natasha nodded. “Then you’ll have records of a Agent Potter gaining access last night between 9 and 12 o’ clock. Which prisoner did he see?”

McTaggue dropped the defensiveness almost as quickly as he’d taken it up. His confusion was real, and Natasha did not need to hear his answer. Neither did Clint.

He stepped up to Natasha’s shoulder and said, “At least tell us you keep the place properly monitored.”

“Of course! What sort of -?”

“Great,” Clint said. He walked around the desk, deliberately stepping into McTaggue’s space. Clint was not a small man, but McTaggue had at least four inches on him. Even so, Clint herded McTaggue out of the way, holding out the chair for Natasha.

She sat down and went to work. The warden blustered something in the background, but Natasha left Clint to deal with it.

“You should upgrade your software,” she said a new minutes later.

McTaggue’s brow furrowed, his outrage evident, but he remained silent. Clint leaned forward over her shoulder, watching the playback with her. They both see it, and they straighten at the same time. Unbidden, Natasha played it again, just to be sure. She didn’t like this. There were too many unknowns, and she knew from experience that a lack of knowledge sink a mission faster than anything else.

This was escalating quickly, perhaps too quickly. She ignored Clint’s impatient fidgeting and in the moments it took to pull out of Riker’s internal systems, she ruminated.

S.H.I.E.L.D was not perfect, but nothing was. Here at least she was valued. S.H.I.E.L.D was _her_ choice, and hers alone. Was Harry worth the risk of loosing that? He was interesting, fractured in a way that made Natasha want to prod and shelter him in turn. But in the end he was a three month acquaintance, and Natasha was not in the habit of throwing herself onto the tracks for just anybody. She looked up at Clint, hoping that she wouldn’t have to say all of this aloud; he had gotten very good at knowing her mind with the barest of clues.

He looked at her, and his impatient frown melted away. He sighed through his nose, and raised his eyebrows in question. He would not ask her to do something that she was truly uncomfortable with, she trusted him enough to know that. It was that trust that made her tuck her unease away and get to her feet. Clint continued to stare at her, brow furrowing in concern. Natasha offered him a tiny heartfelt smile and turned away.

The whole interaction had begun and ended so quickly that McTaggue hadn’t even noticed.

“We need access to prisoner number 11-50973,” Natasha said.

For a moment it looked like McTaggue was going to argue. Natasha sensed Clint come up to stand just behind her left shoulder. The warden huffed and reached for the phone.

It took a little less than half an hour for the Warden to install them in a small consultation room. Natasha arranged herself in the chair across from the door, leaning back with her feet up on the table. Clint installed himself in the corner opposite, arms and ankles crossed. When prisoner 11-50973 comes into the room, she will be the first thing he’ll see.

A few minutes later, the prisoner’s eyes fall directly onto Natasha. She can see his nervousness in the sudden clench of his cuffed hands, and the flare of his wide nostrils. He pauses in the doorway, the guard next to him stopping as well. His hesitation is what gives him away.

Natasha smiled at him, and gestured to the chair, as if he had any say in the fact that he was here to talk to her.

“Eloi Khan,” she said. “We have a few questions for you.”

Clint straightened, stepping over to the door and the guard who lingered there.

“We’ve got this buddy,” he said.

“We’re not supposed to…”

Clint shook his head and motioned the guard out of the room. He shut the door in the guard’s face, and then pulled a small square device out of his pocket. He placed it in the center of the table, and went back to his corner. Khan eyed it warily for a moment, before looking back to Natasha. He was young, appearing only a few years older than Harry. His heavily tanned skin was tinged with gray. His eyes were dark, and heavily hooded. The bags under them might’ve been permanent but Natasha strongly doubted it.

“I’ve answered your questions,” he said.

She tilted her head to the side. “Where are you from?”

“Does your agency not share information with each other?” he asked, frowning. “I was born in Brazil.”

“I don’t believe you,” Natasha said. “Your accent says the middle east. Turkish, or maybe Grecian.” Khan opened his mouth but Natasha raised her hand, silencing him. “We’re not here for that. You were visited in your cell last night by Agent Harry Potter. Why?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Natasha removed her feet from the table and leaned forward.

“I don’t know why you were working with Viator,” she said. “And I don’t really care. All I want to know is what Agent Potter would have to say to you.” She placed two fingers on the little box. “I don’t have time to do this the long way. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to ask you one more time what you and Harry talked about. If you’re smart, you’ll answer, and you can go back to your cell. If you decide to play dumb, I’m going to turn this thing on, and all surveillance in this room will be scrambled. My partner and I will then be free to do everything and anything we need to to get our answers.”

She tapped the scrambler twice, drawing Khan’s attention to it.

“We don’t want to do it. It would be better for everyone involved if you just told us, but we really need to know.”

Khan dragged his eyes up from the scrambler. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Almost before he was finished speaking, Clint was moving, dragging the chair next to Natasha against the door. He shoved it against the handle, effectively keeping anyone from entering. At the same time, Natasha activated the scrambler and placed it to one side. Khan startled at the noise, trying to spin around in his seat, but Natasha reached out and grabbed the chain connecting his handcuffs. She tugged, and Khan fell forward onto his elbows. Clint’s firm grip replaced hers on the chain and Natasha reached for one of Khan’s hands.

He had a long wide palm, and slightly too short fingers. His nails were bitten down, cuticles a mess. She stilled, her eyes narrowing.

“Such interesting scars,” she said. She twisted Khan’s hand, examining the long raised scar that ran the length of his index finger. “How’d you get this one?”

Khan pressed his lips together, allowing his hand to be manipulated.

“How long have you been a member of the League of Shadows?”

Finally a response. Khan jerked, his eyes widening in very real fear. Natasha almost felt bad for him. She pressed her thumb on the first knuckle of his littlest finger, and applied steady pressure with the rest of her hand, bending it out to the side. She released the pressure just at the peak of strain on the joint. Khan was breathing deeply through his nose, his eyes closed.

Clint reached out with his free hand and slapped him.

“Is that how you and Harry know each other? Through the League?”

“You are nothing,” Khan said. “Your pathetic organization is nothing. It will burn like tinder, and make room for what comes after. With nothing behind, there is only forward.”

Natasha sighed, and in one smooth motion, broke his little finger at the first knuckle. He whined low in his throat and closed his eyes. Again, Clint slapped him.

There was a muffled thud against the door, but Clint and Natasha ignored it.

She adjusted her grip, moving on the the last knuckle on the same finger.

“Why was Potter here last night?”

“You and all you covet will return to dust,” Khan said, sweat beginning to bead along his hairline. “We are instruments of fate.”

Natasha pushed until she felt the knuckle snap, and this time she twisted as well. Khan moaned, his eyes falling closed. Clint backhanded him this time. Khan allowed himself to go limp, and would have fallen out of his chair if Clint hadn’t reached out and jerked him back by the collar of his jumpsuit.

“Potter will go to dust just like the rest of you,” Khan said. “I obey the Master and I’ll be properly rewarded. There is nothing you can do. Nothing.”

Natasha stared into his eyes for a long moment. She recognized fanaticism when she saw it. Deep, narrow-minded belief was a heady thing. She remembered it - the absolute certainty that her actions were _good_ , even when they were inherently evil. Result was always bigger, beyond, and so so worth it. Had her eyes looked like that before Clint delivered her to her own truth? Was Harry hiding this somewhere deep inside himself?

Had it always been there, even when he had fallen sleep with them on Clint’s bed? When they had sparred?

She embraced her sudden anger, and snapped Khan’s ring and middle finger for the simple pleasure of doing it. Clint released the handcuffs, and put his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed hard, hard enough to deaden her arm. She glanced up at him, and he looked back. He must have seen something in her face, something that reassured him, because he nodded and released her.

The guards had finally managed to open the door. There were raised voices, questions and accusations. It didn’t matter.

Natasha had gotten what she had come for.

 


End file.
